Fire and Rain
by Jazzcat
Summary: Sequel to A Centaur in New York. Violar, a centaur from Narnia, becomes more and more a part of New York - and Xavier's Institute for the Gifted. And she meets another mutant outside the Institute: A young man named Pyro.
1. Insincerity

It had been a busy morning at Bloomingdale's, and the post-Christmas rush was not at all pleasant. At the customer service counter, my coworkers and I were busier than ever. The majority of Bloomingdale's shoppers were women, and they came returning every item in the store: Wrong color. Wrong size. Wrong taste.

"Can you imagine me in this… this _thing?_" demanded one sour-faced woman who looked as if she lived on every sweetmeat New York had to offer. She held up a brown blouse with patches of pink and bright aqua. "Can you imagine how it would make me look?"

I studied her for a moment, then glanced at the blouse. I _could_ imagine her in it, but that all depended on her sense of style and fashion – which had been severely offended.

Besides, she wasn't really asking for my opinion. She wanted someone to agree with her. That's what I was paid to do.

"Ah, no, not really," I hedged, looking down and frowning a smile into submission. "Um… do you have your receipt?"

She glared at me with flashing brown eyes. "Do I have– You must be daft, lady! I would _never_ have purchased a thing like this! No, I don't have a receipt!"

I looked up quickly and nodded. "Er, of course, of course. Not a problem. Maybe we have you… I mean the purchaser… in our system." I turned with some trepidation to the monstrosity of a computer and poised my hands over the keyboard. "Do you know the name?"

"Jones," the woman snapped back, her lip curled. "Mrs. _Priscilla_ Jones."

"Right. Jones…" I punched out the surname, one painstaking letter at a time. Then I grimaced. "How do you spell 'Priscilla'?"

My customer turned livid. "Don't you people bother graduating high school before entering the workworld? Back in my day, a store like Bloomingdale's wouldn't have hired dropouts like you!"

I bit my lip and lowered my head, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, ma'am," I mumbled, shrinking back to the computer. "I'm new here." That excuse had come in handy on many occasions, softening tempers with understanding. But this time, the woman's nostrils flared, and I hastily ducked behind the monitor. "Let's see here…"

I punched in a P and an R, hoping the computer would be kind enough to display names ending with Jones and beginning with those two letters. But it wasn't. The computer was a very cruel thing that took a particularly wicked delight in crashing right when I was in the middle of the most complicated transactions. Marcia, my boss, confirmed that the crashes weren't my fault.

Today, when I inputted as much of the name as I could, it considered for a moment. Then it gleefully flashed at me: _No Matches Found._

I pursed my lips, glaring at the hateful piece of technology. But I had not yet discovered how to beat a computer into submission, so I turned to my coworker.

"Excuse me, Bethany, I was wondering if you could… Bethany?"

The slender blonde woman turned to me and barely met my eyes. Her scrupulously-applied mascara was suspiciously smeared at the corners of her eyes, though she mustered a sad smile as she left her station and approached mine.

"What seems to be the trouble?" she wondered politely.

"The… well, I was looking for… I need to find a Mrs. Priscilla Jones."

"Oh, certainly." Her slim fingers flew over the keys, and the computer grudgingly displayed a single record with the correct name. "Here we go," she murmured as the customer began to tap her nails ominously on the countertop. She typed in a few more commands with lightning-fast accuracy. "And… here is your list of purchases. You wish to return this, Mrs. Jones?"

The woman's eyes blazed. "I am _not_ Mrs. Jones," she growled. "Do you think a woman of my taste would have chosen something this hideous?" She tossed the blouse onto the counter.

A moment of deadly silence descended over Customer Service as Bethany and the woman stared at each other over the blouse. Then Bethany drew a little breath.

"Perfectly hideous," she agreed with quiet dishonesty, looking at the woman instead of the little mound of fabric. She picked up the blouse and ran the tag beneath the red laser scanner, and she glanced at the screen. The computer hesitated, then displayed the price amount with a minus sign. And – just because it wasn't about to let anyone off easy – it added a dialogue box.

Bethany squared her shoulders and faced the she-dragon with the blouse. "Will this be a refund or an exchange?"

"Refund," the woman shot back. "I'm not shopping here."

A breath escaped Bethany's lungs. "Right." She hit the "Refund" key, but the computer did nothing. Bethany struck the key again. And again.

The screen was frozen. I imagined that somewhere deep within its soul of wires and circuits, the wicked beast was laughing at us.

Stifling something unrepeatable under her breath, Bethany moved back to her own station and keyed in all the correct information. Her computer was of a far sweeter disposition. Within seconds, the cash drawer shot open, and Bethany collected a handful of bills and a few coins. She tore off a receipt, slammed the drawer shut, and returned to my angry customer.

"Here you are, Mrs.–" She caught herself at the last second. "Ma'am. Thirty-six dollars and fifty-eight cents. And here's your receipt."

"And here's your ugly blouse," the woman snapped, tossing it at me. I caught it, startled by the venom in the gesture. "Take my advice and burn it!"

She stalked off, stuffing the change into her large black purse. I sighed, then glared up at my frozen computer. I fancied it grinned back at me.

"Thanks, Bethany. I owe you one."

"Don't mention it," she mumbled as she shuffled back to her station.

I dropped the maligned blouse into a specially marked bin, then glanced up at the line of customers who had collected behind blouse-lady. They looked at me with expressions of impatience or pity – or both. I smiled back at them.

"I'm having some computer troubles. I apologize for the inconvenience," I said over a sudden rise of groans. "If I could just have all the exchanges only in this line, I'll have to ask the rest of you to migrate to Bethany's register over there. Thank you."

Swiftly and succinctly, I dealt with each customer's problem, issuing them handwritten exchange vouchers – signed by me – for various amounts. My cheeks hurt from smiling without due cause. My heart ached from absorbing unwarranted abuse without complaint. My knees stiffened up from standing too long in one place, and my feet made it clear that they didn't appreciate my choice of dress shoes.

Worst of all for a centaur, my stomach growled. I was used to browsing throughout the day to appease my fast metabolism, so a single lunch break once in an eight-hour shift took a toll on my demanding body. I attributed my dull headache to a combination of factors: Hunger and stress being the most prominent.

Once I reached the end of my line, I waved a few of Bethany's waiting customers to my counter and handed out more vouchers as quickly as I could. At last, Bethany and I were alone.

I breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to my coworker as she punched a few numbers into her computer. On impulse I reached up to rub her shoulders, and my eyebrows jumped.

"Unbelievable," I remarked.

Bethany sighed. "What's unbelievable?" she asked with the same well-trained, longsuffering politeness she presented to every New Yorker who approached her counter.

I smirked. "I feel like I'm massaging the stone shoulders of a gargoyle."

Bethany suddenly laughed, and her shoulders loosened beneath my hands with her genuine amusement. "Thanks, I guess. That's the kindest thing I've heard all day."

My heart twisted up, and I glanced around Bloomingdale's. The strategically-aimed lighting, the mottled brown carpet leading up to linoleum pathways between store departments, and the soft, cheery music playing in the background contributed to what was supposed to be a calm, sophisticated atmosphere. Too bad it was so often lost on the hard exteriors of our customers.

"Listen… why don't you go to lunch?" I offered. My stomach whined in dismay, but I ignored it. "We only have one station available anyway."

Bethany broke out of my grasp and turned to me in surprise. "Are you sure you can handle things here… by yourself?"

"No," I said, chuckling dryly. "But I do know how to call the manager if I get lonely."

Bethany slowly smiled, then lowered her head and nodded. "Yeah, alright. I guess I will. You're sure?" She looked up at me again.

I huffed and grinned. "Your lack of confidence in my abilities is so inspiring. Will you get out of here already?"

Bethany laughed shyly and edged out from behind our counter. "You're so funny, Violar. I'm going. But if you need anything…"

"You'd better hurry up," I told her in a playful warning tone. "If you take your sweet time during lunch…"

"Okay, okay, please don't threaten me. You can be awfully scary sometimes." She held up her hands with another little smile, then wandered off to the back of the store, rubbing her neck as she walked.

I sighed and looked up at the ceiling, inwardly praying to Aslan that I wouldn't pass out from sheer hunger before Bethany returned. I was already feeling lightheaded. In another half-hour, I would begin to wonder how edible various kinds of fabrics were. But I only had thirty minutes, and I had survived through worse in the Calormene desert. Just thirty minutes…

Life at Bloomingdale's was a waiting game: Watching the clock hands slowly tick toward lunch, toward my 15-minute break, toward the end of the day. I appreciated the challenge of caring for customers just so the time would fly without my knowledge, but when there wasn't some unhappy person hauling defective items to my counter, I had to find other ways to pass the time.

I turned to my computer. The screen had miraculously returned to the Main Menu. And it was trying not to laugh.

"You wicked thing," I snarled under my breath, lunging toward it. I seized the monitor and gave it my signature glare, which had frozen even neevils from Ettinsmoor in their tracks. "You listen to me, you wayward piece of technology. If you don't cooperate with me, I _will_ get back at you. I'll…" I thought fast. "I'll wait until you become obsolete, and when the technicians arrive to replace you with a new, more efficient model, I will personally drag you to the rooftop and throw you off. You'll be nothing but a pile of broken bits of… whatever you're made of. You'll just be fodder for the street sweeper."

The computer gave me a smug look. I had the worst feeling that nothing I said would phase it.

"Fine," I growled as I released it. "Be that way. But just you wait."

I thought for certain that Father Time was going to awaken and Aslan would return in all his glory before Bethany finally returned. I greeted her breathlessly as I lunged into the hallway and ran for the breakroom, ignoring the stares from customers and a couple of Bloomingdale's employees. I burst through the door, ripped open my locker and grabbed an energy bar, stuffing it into my mouth while I pulled my lunch from the refrigerator: An extra-large roast beef sandwich with all the toppings and an orange carrot SOBE marked with my name. I sent a brief prayer of thanksgiving in Aslan's direction and set to devouring the sandwich.

Within minutes only crumbs remained, and my stomach stopped its complaining long enough to deal with the food. I moaned and dropped my head to the table, listening to the buzz of the lights in the empty room while new life coursed through me.

I still had twenty minutes left on my lunch break – which was good, because that was about all the time I could stand to dwell in a windowless room before my claustrophobia began to take over. After awhile, I got up and returned to my locker, pulling out a notepad and pen I kept with me whenever I decided to write down thoughts and feelings.

I sat down with a heavy sigh and clicked the pen, then poised it over the paper. A moment later, I began to write.

_Prisoner of the heart_

_Caged in your own soul,_

_Locked in a dark tower_

_Upon lonely shoals;_

_Standing over the sea_

_Watching the moon rise,_

_Listening to the gulls_

_And their timeless cries;_

_You are too beautiful_

_To hide forever,_

_Your heart too wonderful_

_To reveal never._

_Waves crash against the rocks,_

_Tides go in and out,_

_Tearing away your hope,_

_Bringing with it doubt._

_Make your escape before_

_Ivy climbs the walls_

_And the crumbling fortress_

_Takes you with its fall._

_Leave your burdens here,_

_Your broken past forget,_

_When you fly away_

_From this dark parapet._

_Hear the wild wind_

_Crying out your name?_

_Find that healing rain_

_Will wash away your shame._

_Not everyone is blessed_

_With freedom as you are,_

_To fly into the clouds_

_And soar among the stars._

_A pathway of diamonds_

_Will lead to your crown;_

_Wave from such great heights_

_And never come down._

_Fly away to the land_

_Where dreams never die,_

_And find love waiting_

_Beneath the star-pricked sky._

_Freedom pure as the wind_

_Whipping through your hair;_

_Should your wings falter,_

_Angels will take you there._

_The skies are clear tonight_

_From here to the sea,_

_So spread your wings tonight_

_And fly away free._

These things – and so, so much more – I longed to tell Angel. Why was it that whenever I was around him, my courage wilted and my words fled beyond recall? He was already lost to me: What more did I have to lose?

But all I had to do was come into Angel's presence, and suddenly I was rendered incapable of speech or thought. Deep down, I knew it was pointless to say anything. Nothing I said would change the way Angel felt – or didn't feel – about me. Nothing I said would sway him from his dead-end course with his girlfriend, Thea, because he felt he owed her. He had a valid responsibility towards her, because he was indeed guilty of stealing her heart and making her his mistress – whether or not he believed the term too harsh, too cut and dried, for the situation.

No matter how awful circumstances became, Angel wouldn't give up on Thea. He wouldn't walk away from her. I admired his devotion, misguided as it was.

It was just… all so wrong.

I groaned and rubbed my temples, feeling my blood pressure suddenly elevate. My claustrophobia had reached its limits. I glanced up at the clock and paled. _By the mane!_

I leapt out of my chair, stuffed my notepad into my locker and slammed the door, then exploded out of the breakroom and ran through the hallway at Bloomingdale's – garnering a fresh round of stares from customers and employees alike. Bethany was leaning against the counter, her arms folded as she watched my hasty approach.

"Violar," she reprimanded with a little smirk. "You're only seven minutes late. It's not a big deal."

"I'm sorry," I gasped as I stepped through the low swinging door and joined her. "I lost track of time. I'm really sorry."

Bethany chuckled lightly and waved it off. "Don't worry about it, gosh! It's just seven minutes. Although it is kind of entertaining to see you running through a fine department store, please don't do it. You'll get in more trouble for running than for being a few minutes late."

"I… I don't want to get one of those write-up things," I stammered, smoothing my skirt. "If you get three of them, they can fire you." I shuddered in horror. Abruptly I winced and asked, "Did I muss my hair?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Violar, you are the funniest person I've ever met. No, you didn't mess up your hair. Settle down, okay?"

I took a deep breath and tried to do just that, but my instincts were too stirred up. "Would you mind if I stepped outside for just a minute? I won't be long, I promise."

Bethany grinned at me. "After we take care of all these customers," she said, waving her hand at the empty space before our counter.

It took a moment to register that she was telling a joke. "Oh, right, haha, good one. I'll be back…"

With that, I dashed out from behind the counter.

"And no running!" Bethany called after me.

I instantly slowed my pace to a brisk walk and went to the opposite end of the store. There was a side door used by the employees, and I rarely liked to use that exit since most of the people who loitered out there were smoking. Cigarette smoke wreaked havoc on the lungs of a centaur accustomed to fresh air, and I was deathly allergic to it. Maybe I would get lucky this time and find the area vacant.

I opened the door and stepped out – right into a thick cloud of smoke. I leapt off the sidewalk and beat a hasty retreat, choking and waving in front of my nose. My watery stare fell on a young man with blonde-spiked dark hair who was looking at me rather unkindly.

"I'm very sorry," I apologized. "I can't breathe. Would you mind putting out your cigarette, sir? I'll only be out here a minute."

He curled up his lip and gave me a nasty look. "Fat chance, lady. Find your own piece of real estate. I was here first."

Startled by his attitude, I stood there for a moment, staring at him. He was completely serious. In Narnia, a gentleman always accommodated a woman, and I didn't feel that my request had been outrageous. Apparently my request had been outrageous – by New York standards.

Blinking, I backed away. "Of course. I… apologize for my intrusion."

"Hmph." He took another puff of his cigarette and ignored me.

I retreated toward the back of the store and stopped a safe distance from the young fellow. Industrial city air wasn't my favorite kind of air, but it was better than the stale air of the cramped breakroom – or the acrid cigarette smoke. I leaned against the outer brick wall and took deep, regular breaths, trying to clear my head.

I couldn't wait to come back home.

Finally the evening shift came in to replace us. Marcia counted out our daily audits and had us sign the necessary paperwork – half of which, I confess, was more than a little hard for me to understand.

Bethany and I got off at the same time. After we punched out our timecards and gathered our belongings, I put on my cream-colored trenchcoat and walked with Bethany out the large glass front doors. A busy parking lot spread before us, and the fierce bite of cold January air greeted us. While we waited for a break in traffic, I tucked my hands in my pockets and glanced sideways at my coworker.

"You did a good job in there today," I offered, puffs of steam rising from my mouth.

"Oh, please." Bethany rolled her eyes. "Not you too."

The street lulled, and I gave Bethany a startled look as she started onto the crosswalk. I hurried after her and caught up.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No." Bethany closed her eyes briefly with a sigh as we walked down a row of parked cars. "You said everything right. That's the problem."

"I don't understand…"

"Yes, you do." Bethany's bright blue eyes met mine. "You of all people know exactly what I'm talking about. I watch you, and you don't fit in because you don't act like everyone else. Gosh, are you okay? You've gone really pale all of a sudden."

I gulped. My mouth was suddenly dry and I was a little short of breath. Bethany, like all of my coworkers – save our boss Marcia, who hired me in the first place without credentials because she was sympathetic to mutants like myself – didn't know about my heritage. And I'd gone to great lengths to keep it that way. If Bethany suspected anything…

"I… I'm fine. Just trying to understand what you're saying," I hedged quietly. "Ah… aside from the, er, completely flattering implication that I don't fit in." I managed a smile.

She stared at me a moment more, then grabbed my hand and yanked me to one side of the street. Bewildered, I looked over my shoulder and saw a large vehicle – one they called an Esyuvee or something like that, whatever it meant – backing out of a parking spot. Bethany's quick action saved me from a close call. I winced, then followed Bethany down the center of the packed row. It was safer for us there.

Neither of us spoke until we reached her car, though my thoughts were whirling and my heart was hammering in my ears. If anyone knew that Marcia occasionally hired mutants _because_ they were mutants, she could lose her job and find herself in trouble with the law. It counted as discrimination, as equal rights for mutants were still in the early stages in this human-dominated society. I thought Bethany was nice enough, and I didn't imagine she would be capable of turning in Marcia, but still…

"Never mind what I said," mumbled Bethany quietly as she fished around in her purse and came up with a ring of jangling keys.

"No!" I cried, stepping closer to her. I had to know. "Please, Bethany. I really want… I _need_ to understand what you mean. Please."

She looked up at me, and her hands stilled. Then her gaze wandered past me, drifting over the crowded parking lot to the storefront rising over civilization.

"Haven't you noticed how… insincere everyone is?"

I chuckled nervously and rubbed my neck, wondering if I were included in that mention of everyone. "Well, I…"

"Like that woman who returned the brown blouse. You know, the one with the high and mighty fashion sense?" I chuckled again, though I was mentally stumbling to keep up with her. "If the three of us had met on the street, and she treated us like that, what would you have done?"

The question was a surprise, and I thought it over carefully. "I don't really know," I said at last. "Maybe… turned around and walked away?"

"I'd have slapped her," declared Bethany with such vehement bluntness that my eyes widened. "No one deserves to be treated like that. The only reason we put up with it is because we're _paid_ to put up with it."

"I suppose," I answered slowly, though a little of my alarm began to recede. Perhaps Bethany didn't know, after all. "But it's hard to say exactly why that woman was so angry. Maybe she has a personal problem with Mrs. Priscilla Jones – something that goes far beyond clothes. Maybe–"

"It doesn't matter," Bethany insisted. "You don't… you can't treat people that way, especially when they're innocent and just trying to help. But I can't tell her what she deserves to hear. If I speak my mind, I lose my job! And I need this job," she went on, her lower lip suddenly trembling as she looked away. "I have bills to pay, you know? Student loans and… things like that. It's just not fair."

The quaver in her tone twisted my heart, and I saw the bright sheen in her eyes. I reached over and placed my hand gently on her shoulder. "What's the matter, Bethany?"

The blonde girl shook her head and turned away, inserting the key into the car door. "Get in," she invited quietly.

I hesitated, studying the car. It was one of those enclosed spaces I despised so much, and I'd already brushed with my claustrophobia once that afternoon. Nevertheless, I moved around the car and opened the passenger door, sliding into the seat. Bethany needed someone to talk to.

We closed the doors, and the city noise level was reduced to a more peaceful hum in the quiet of the car. My heartrate automatically increased in pace, so I concentrated on my companion. Bethany sniffled quietly and wiped tears from her cheeks without looking at me.

"I won't breathe a word to anyone," I promised soothingly.

"I believe you," responded Bethany in a trembling tone. But she didn't say anything else for a long time, and I looked out the car window to give her a little breathing room without staring her down.

Abruptly she launched into an explanation. "It's just… everything is going wrong for me right now, Violar. A couple years ago, I moved in with my boyfriend, Derek, because I love him – and I thought it would be a good way for us to lower our overhead after we got out of college. So, you know, we split the rent and the utilities and everything, and I thought it was all wonderful. But then he…" She broke off with a sob.

Without saying anything, I reached over and gently rubbed her shoulder. She covered her face with her hands, and her heartbreak flowed between her fingers.

"I found out he's been seeing someone else," she admitted shakily. "He doesn't know that I know. But I do and I… don't know what to do about it. I can't afford to move out, and I'm afraid that if I say something, he'll kick me out, and I don't have anywhere to go."

I swallowed hard, overwhelmed by her incredible pain and hopelessness as well as the impossible decisions looming before her. There seemed to be no way out – a feeling I knew all too well.

I rubbed her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Bethany," I said softly.

Her tears flowed more freely, and her voice shook and broke in between sobs. "I feel so betrayed… because I still love him. Now every time he says he loves me, I can't believe him. I see it in his eyes… He doesn't mean it. He said he was going to marry me… I think I'm pregnant with his baby… I don't know what to do…"

My heart ripped for my coworker. I reached over and drew her into a hug, and her tears soaked into my trench coat. I held her tightly as a few tears slipped down my own cheeks, and I rubbed her back and let her cry.

"Shhh," I whispered at length. "It's alright. Everything will be alright."

I leaned my head against hers, feeling her pain deep inside my Danger Sense. Sometimes being in love was worse than being out of it – if one were caught in the wrong romantic situation. But what was the wrong romantic situation? How could one tell? There were always doubts and fears to be had. How did one go about safely surrendering?

The very thought was oxymoronic.

I brought my attention back to the crying girl on my shoulder. "Do you have parents or relatives you could stay with?"

Bethany shook her head against my shoulder. "All my relatives are in Russia, except for my parents. My father and I… we had a falling-out a few years back. We… we don't talk anymore."

I winced, torn even deeper. "I'm so sorry, Bethany," I murmured.

After a moment, Bethany pulled away from me and leaned back against her seat, sniffling and wiping away her tears. "It doesn't help to say that, Violar. I know you mean it – you, of all people, mean it when you ask, 'How are you today?' or tell a customer, 'Have a nice afternoon!' I don't know how you've managed to stay so… well, unjaded. I envy your lack of temper, too."

I chuckled at that. "Oh, Bethany, I have a temper."

"Yeah, I think everyone does. But you control it," she said, looking over at me with a tear-stained face. "You've clearly been in customer service a long time. I haven't. I can't survive too many years of dealing with people like… that."

I shrugged, inwardly surprised – but trying not to show it. "Sometimes you just… have to look deeper, I suppose. Everyone has their stories and their reasons."

"Yeah, but it's _wrong_ to take it out on people," Bethany complained.

I nodded. "I think so too, but it's not really… my judgment call. Where I come from, if someone working in a store had been crying like you were, business would have ground to a halt while customers and coworkers alike took care of the crea– of the person."

Bethany lowered her head. "Sounds like a piece of paradise."

"It is," I answered quietly. "My point is, though, that no one here takes time for anyone else, so no one thinks they need to offer that generosity to anyone. They fend for themselves only. By my hope remains that maybe, just maybe, if one person shows that she can look out for someone else – even if that someone else doesn't act like they deserve looking after – they might open their eyes and give the same gift to someone else someday."

Bethany was staring at me as if I'd come from another planet – which, technically speaking, I had. I smiled sheepishly, realizing that I'd just given a little speech. Centaurs were known for preaching occasionally, and even an outcast centaur like myself was no different.

"It's a wonderful hope," Bethany conceded, gazing dully out the windshield. "It's a… a very little hope. Little hopes get crushed in a big city like this."

I looked at her. Bethany was young and beautiful, but cares of the world weighed down the corners of her mouth and saddened the contours of her eyes.

"Like yours?" I wondered softly.

Suddenly I had an idea, but it was a terrible risk – not just to myself and Marcia, but to all the people I considered my family. But Bethany was a good girl, and if I could offer her a little bit of the hope I spoke of…

"Oh, Violar." She chuckled wearily and lifted tired eyes to mine. "You don't know the half of it. Sometimes life just isn't worth pursuing, and hope, well…" Her face changed as she recognized something in my expression. "What is it?"

I bit my lip, studying her face intently. It was a risk indeed. But it was a calculated risk. After all, that same risk – that same hope – had been extended to me.

"I was just wondering something," I answered slowly.

She wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. "Yeah, like what?"

I drew a deep breath, then took one of her hands in mine. She gave me a puzzled look.

"If you promise me… If you give me your solemn word never to speak of it to anyone, then I might… have a solution. At least a temporary one."

She frowned. Clearly she didn't believe me. "What kind of solution are you talking about?"

"Promise me first," I insisted.

Bethany heaved a dispirited sigh and let her head fall against the back of the seat. "Oh, fine. I promise."

"It's very important that you never breathe a word of it," I tried to impress on her.

Bethany nodded. "Yeah, okay. Whatever."

Despite her lackadaisical response, I sensed that she meant what she said. "Alright," I breathed, sitting back. "Alright."

Bethany plucked a tissue from a Kleenex box and blew her nose, then sat up straighter – as if she were feeling a little better after divulging her secret. I silently took notes.

"So, um… I'm going to go home now. I need the rest," she explained with a little chuckle. Then she looked at me, and I smiled back at her, waiting for her to make the only polite offer I could imagine at that moment. "Where's your car, Violar?"

"I don't have one," I responded calmly.

"How do you get to work?"

"I usually walk – or take the bus."

Bethany's blonde eyebrows arched. "So you live close to here?"

"Pretty close, yes."

"Okay. Well…" She thrust the key into the side of the steering wheel and started the engine. "Would you like me to take you home? Maybe you can explain this crazy life-changing plan of yours along the way."

My smile broadened, and my heart warmed deep inside of me. This could really work. As long as I didn't tell her about my connection with Marcia, then – I felt – offering to let Bethany stay at Xavier's Institute was a chance I could take.

"I'd like that, Bethany. Do you know where Graymalkin Lane is?"


	2. Safety

I'll never forget the look of wonder on Bethany Tisdale's face as she craned upward to gaze at the mansion through her car window. I must have looked something like that when I first cantered up to the gates of Xavier's. I'd never seen anyplace like it.

"You live… here?" breathed Bethany, staring at me with disbelief in her blue eyes.

"By the grace of God, yes," I answered, smiling. "If you'd be so kind, punch the numbers 466298 into the keypad. I don't want to have to get out and key it in myself. I'm as tired as you are, and my feet hurt."

Bethany wrenched her wide eyes from me to the keypad in question, then entered the security code. She gasped softly as the gates swung open before us, and she drove slowly into the driveway, awestruck by the majestic atmosphere of the place.

"Are you… sure they won't mind me being here?" she wondered in an awestruck tone.

"I'm sure, but I need to know just one thing: How do you feel about… mutants?"

Bethany didn't seem to grasp the significance of my question, distracted as she was by the size of the mansion. "They're alright, I guess, but I hear a lot of them are villains. I wouldn't want to meet those. Would you look at that front door! And you say you don't even have a car?"

Suddenly my eyes widened. "Look out for the–!"

I grabbed the steering wheel and yanked it toward me, and Bethany screamed as the car narrowly missed a stone column and a bush by the side of the driveway. Clearly shaken up, Bethany gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead from that point forward until we were safely parked.

My ears were still ringing as I took her inside and showed her around. The sunset light cast orange shadows on the window-lined hallways, and I spoke softly, explaining what each room was for: Classrooms, the lounge, the gameroom, a couple of offices. Bethany stayed behind me, looking around with large, furtive eyes like a child lost in the vast corridors of Cair Paravel. I took her into the kitchen and offered her a snack and something to drink, but she shook her head dumbly. I picked a strawberry daiquiri SOBE out of the refrigerator and sipped it while we strolled casually along and continued our tour.

"You really… do live here," she breathed at length.

I looked back at her in surprise as we stood in the middle of the Professor's vast library. "Yes, Bethany, I do."

Her chin began to tremble. Her shimmering eyes came down from the tall stacks of books and riveted on me. "And you mean that… _I_… could live here?"

I wrapped my arms around her as she began to cry. "Yes," I answered softly. I sighed and hugged her tightly. "Yes, you can."

Bethany was so tired. Once her tears had abated, I led her upstairs and settled her in one of the guest rooms. I made a trip to my room for a blouse and skirt and my fuzzy white bathrobe, offering them all to Bethany. Then I made another trip to the kitchen and put together a tray of snacks, cookies, and three kinds of cold drinks, which I brought up and set on the table. Bethany was sitting on the bed, watching me as if she couldn't believe what was happening to her.

"If there's anything else you need, I'm just a few rooms over," I assured her, moving about the room and closing the curtains on the gathering darkness. "There are some books to read, if you'd like them, and plenty of towels and toiletries in the bathroom. I imagine you'd like to shower and…"

Bethany's soft voice came as a gentle interruption. "It's like a… a dream," she breathed, looking dazed. "A wonderful… wonderful dream that's too good to be true. I… I don't know what to think or…" She blinked as if her mind had gone blank.

I came forward at once and took her hand. "In a way, it is a dream," I replied with a gentle smile. "But it is a dream that you won't wake up from. It will be here in the morning, and it will be here every day after that. Now go shower and get ready for bed, Bethany. Do you get cold easily?"

She nodded and lowered her eyes. "I don't like winter," she confessed. "It's so dreary and snowy and gray, and I get tired of freezing all the time. I miss the sun."

Even though my own sentiments were exactly the opposite, I laughed. "That's alright. Spring is just around the corner. In the meantime, I'll make sure you're warm enough."

I pressed her hand and left to gather two thick quilts from one of the linen closets, which I set outside her door. Then I went back to the kitchen and made a pot of hot water, setting up a second tray with packets of powdered hot chocolate, peppermint tea, and powdered apple cider. I added a couple of mugs, upside-down, along with two Rice Crispies treats and plastic-wrapped cinnamon rolls pilfered from the pantry stash.

Actually, they were bear claws, but since a few of my own friends from Narnia are bears, I didn't like to call them that. It didn't feel any more polite than eating a snack referred to as "hoof rounds" in front of Narnia's Talking Horses.

By the time I carried it upstairs and knocked on Bethany's door, she had showered. She wore my fuzzy white bathrobe, and her hair was wrapped in a kind of veil made with a clever twist of the towel. I couldn't help staring.

"How do you do that?" I wondered, setting the tray on the table.

She laughed, surprised. "You don't know, really? I'll show you. It's easy."

When our lesson concluded, I spread the two blankets over her bed and prepared to leave her for the night. But suddenly Bethany burst into tears.

"Please don't go, Violar," she pleaded, sniffling. "I know I'm a mess but just… please…"

"Oh, don't say that," I chided soothingly. I closed the door and came back to her, guiding her gently to bed. I pulled back the covers and, once she had lain down, I drew the blankets over her and tucked her in. "You're just tired and you've had a long day. You'll feel better in the morning."

A louder sob wrenched from Bethany. "No I won't," she said miserably. "I feel like this… all the time. I'm an emotional wreck. I've done something to push Derek away and I don't know what…"

"Shh," I soothed, rubbing her shoulder. "Stay quiet now. Let me get you some tea."

I went to the table, fixed a cup of peppermint tea, and brought it back for her, setting the steaming mug on the nightstand. Then I sat down beside her and held her hand, but she wouldn't look at me. Her face was distraught and anxious.

"I'm so… angry," she sobbed. "And I've been too scared to show it. But it's my own fault that I'm not good enough for him."

"Bethany," I stopped her, squeezing her hand tightly. "You can't think that way."

"Yes I can," she whimpered. "You don't know me. We haven't worked together that long. Derek… He's had to live with me for two years, and that was all he could take. I'm not fit for a 'happily ever after' kind of life…"

I sighed and gazed down at her with intense sympathy. "Oh, Bethany. No one is fit for a 'happily ever after' life, but my mother always said that love doesn't come to the deserving – or the worthy. Love comes to the lucky. Now for you," I went on as she tentatively met my eyes, "you're not the one who ceased to love. You've been faithful, and you've done everything you're capable of doing. Take comfort in that, alright?"

Bethany looked up at me, and for a moment I thought she was going to take what I'd said at face value and embrace it. Then her expression crumbled, and her blue eyes flooded with tears.

"Why doesn't he love me anymore, Violar?" she pleaded.

My heart shattered. I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her, and she cried and cried like a child. Tears coursed down my own cheeks as I held her. I felt this woman's pain all too keenly: I would have, even had it not been so close to mine. I squeezed my eyes shut and let her cry herself to sleep.

I retreated slowly and gently so as not to wake her, then looked down at her. Bethany's strained features were softened only a little by the blessed forgetfulness of sleep.

"I don't know," I whispered, even though she couldn't hear me. "The world just… isn't fair."

Wiping my own cheeks, I turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind me. My heart was too heavy to immediately fold up and fall asleep myself, so I wandered down to the lounge and sat down on the couch to wrestle with my thoughts and feelings.

I was so deeply immersed in contemplation that the soft rustle of feathers startled me.

"Hey," said Angel sheepishly, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets.

I stared at him for a moment, then lowered my head. "Hi. How are you tonight?"

"Oh, same as always, I suppose." He stepped further into the room, pulled up the low ottoman – the only piece of backless furniture in the room – and sat down on it. His knees rose nearly to his chest, giving him a casual, boyish posture. "How are you?"

I shrugged. "Tired from work," I replied, managing a little smile for the man of my dreams. "But after a few hours of sleep, I'll be good as new in the morning."

"I understand." Angel sighed and wrapped his arms around his knees, and we lapsed into a heavy silence.

I grew uncomfortable first. "So, ah, how are things with you and Thea?"

Angel grimaced and looked away. "Same as usual." A muscle tightened in his jaw. "Mind if we talk about something else?"

Caught off-guard by the biting undertone in his usually friendly voice, I shrugged again and shook my head. "Of course not. What would you rather talk about?"

The muscle in his jaw shifted more prominently. "The weather. Movies. The secret meanings of dreams. Anything but _her._"

I raised my eyebrows. It was all I could do to keep from openly staring at him, so I looked down at the floor instead and cleared my throat. "Alright, sure. Uh, you go first." _Because my mind is a blank,_ I thought but didn't add.

Angel ran a hand through his thick blonde hair and folded his wings more tightly behind him. "There isn't much to tell, really. I've been flying a lot, and I think I'm getting faster. I nearly plucked a bald eagle out of the sky in mid-flight a couple days ago."

That brought a more genuine smile out of me. "Really? Why didn't you catch him?"

"Because he whipped around and bit me." He held up his forefinger, and I leaned forward to study it automatically – and saw nothing at all. "Oh, uh, it's all healed up by now, of course. But it hurt like hell at the time."

I sat back, chuckling softly. "Next time, go after something a little more friendly – like Canadian geese."

"I will, when they get back from summer vacation." He sighed and looked away. "I could use a vacation," he muttered wistfully.

My heart ached to see him looking so forlorn. After a moment, I ventured, "How would you like to come with me… to Narnia?"

Angel slowly brought his piercing blue eyes back to mine, and I stopped breathing. He blinked and grew introspective, and a wisp of a smile crossed his lips.

"Yeah, that would be nice, Violar. Thanks."

There was no quelling the breathless surge of hope that suddenly overwhelmed my downtrodden heart. "I'd be delighted to take you, Angel. When would you like to go?"

At that, his expression darkened once more, and it was like watching a cloud cover the sun. "I dunno. I'll have to ask Thea, or she'll rip my feathers out for disappearing on her. And if she finds out that I'm with another woman, even a woman I'm just friends with, she'll kill me."

My heart twisted up and sank into its usual state of painful depression. I swallowed hard. "I understand. I'm sorry if I was out of line, bringing it up."

"No, no, not at all," he hastened to assure me. Then he fixed his blue eyes on mine, and with a sharp breath, I quickly hid all my secretly broken dreams. "So enough about me. What about you? How is life treating you?"

For a moment that felt like an eternity, I stared into the depths of Angel's blue eyes. Here was yet another opportunity to tell him the truth – or at least to drop a pointed hint. Because I wasn't doing well. I was dying inside. Everything I wanted was just beyond my reach, looking at me from behind glass, and I couldn't understand why.

It was all on the tip of my tongue. But I couldn't… I just couldn't tell him.

"I'm good," I lied, nodding for emphasis. I gave a little smile and lowered my eyes from his, feeling sick to my stomach – which sent a brief frown across my features. Still, I pursed my lips into what was supposed to be a soft smile. "Wonderful, actually."

"Well, I'm glad one of us is," he muttered.

We fell into silence again until I couldn't bear the tension of his presence anymore. I rose from the couch with all the dignity I still possessed and offered a smile at his questioning look.

"I have to get up early for work," I explained. "It was nice to see you, Angel."

He stood up and took my hand in his, giving it a brief shake. "You too, Violar. And I hope I didn't offend you. I am truly grateful for your offer to join you in Narnia."

My throat constricted, but I mustered a smile. "No, you didn't offend me at all. If you change your mind, just let me know."

"I'll do that," he promised, stepping back. "Pleasant dreams."

I nodded halfheartedly. "You too, Angel."

I retreated at once. I made it up the stairs and into the hallway before I burst into tears, and I ran for my room. With trembling hands I fitted the key into my lock, let myself in, and closed the door after me. Then I slid to the floor, curled up on the carpet, and wept.

Who was I kidding? It was over, and I knew it. I was only torturing myself for holding on to that tiny spark of hope. Why else had I taken that feather out of my hair? I just needed to let it all go. I needed to stop being foolish – and putting forth foolish offers, such as asking if Angel would like to join me on a trip to Narnia. What was I thinking?

I pushed myself off the floor and quickly dashed away my tears. This whole thing was ridiculous. How I wished for a good measure of the wisdom of my own people, which apparently had gotten lost somewhere between New York and Narnia. I was going to make myself crazy and wind up like poor Bethany, and I knew it.

I got ready for bed, but hours passed before I drifted into an uneasy sleep.


	3. Truth

The next morning, I found Bethany's door wide open. I broke into a run down the hallway and peered inside her room. It was empty.

Half-running past sleepy students on their way to the kitchen for breakfast, I managed a brief search of the mansion before I darted outside and checked the parking lot. Bethany's car was gone.

Rubbing my eyes, I went back inside and found my way to the kitchen for a hasty breakfast. By then, I was late – too late to either walk to work or wait for the bus. Alisha entered the kitchen a few minutes later, and I persuaded her to drive me to work on her way downtown to run a few errands. Her school schedule on Wednesdays was fortunately light, so my request didn't disrupt her curriculum.

When I trotted into Bloomingdale's, I found Bethany at the Customer Service desk, already assisting customers. She barely glanced up at me before she bent her head over her register.

"Good morning," I greeted her, a little bewildered by the coldness I was feeling from her.

"Morning," she muttered.

Frowning a little, I took my place and keyed my personal security code into the computer. I'm certain I had every number right, but nevertheless, it gave me its typical beastly grin as the screen flashed: _Invalid Entry. Access Denied._

"Don't you start with me," I growled under my breath, concentrating on my fingers as I punched in the code once more with extra vehemence. This time, it went through.

"I'm open," I called, waving at the customers in Bethany's line. "Can I help you?"

It was an hour before Bethany and I had a lull. I turned to her, my curiosity piqued to its highest level.

"Did you sleep well last night?"

She nodded with forced cheerfulness. "Mhmm!" Then she pretended to busy herself with sorting through a handful of credit card receipts.

Undaunted, I hedged dryly, "You must have gotten up early."

"Oh, uh, actually, I woke up because my cell phone went off."

"Really?"

Bethany slowly turned to face me. "Mhmm. Woke me out of a dead sleep. It went off four times in a row before I finally woke up enough to answer it."

Some of my irritation melted away. "I'm sorry, Bethany. I hadn't thought of turning off your phone – nor do I know how to shut off a cell phone, come to think of it." At her puzzled look, I added, "I've never had a cell phone."

"Gosh, everyone has one these days. You should get one," admonished Bethany in genuine surprise.

"So that I too can be rudely awakened early in the morning?"

Bethany's expression melted into a relieved smile, and she laughed as if grateful that I chose to make light of it. She turned away and went back to sorting her receipts.

"Actually, it was Derek who called me," she said with her back to me.

I felt my eyes narrow. "Four times, hmm?"

"Yes. He was pretty desperate to get a hold of me, and he'd worried himself sick. I explained that I'd just driven a coworker home and that I'd stayed at her house overnight, but that wasn't good enough for him. He wanted to see me in person, so I stopped by our place early before work."

Red flags went up in my brain. She'd called the residence she shared with Derek _our_ place.

No matter how carefully Bethany disguised it, there was no mistaking the slight tone of hope in her voice. I knew what that tone sounded like because I heard it in my own thoughts time and time again, whenever I was considering something that pertained to Angel.

I sighed sharply. "Bethany, what are you thinking? Derek is the one who's cheating on you. Or so you told me yesterday, remember?"

She turned to me with a sigh of her own, and she avoided my steady gaze. "Yeah, I remember. But maybe he's sorry for it and doesn't know how to say it," she added, the hopefulness in her voice mounting to a heartbreaking crescendo. "Maybe he still loves me. I love him, Violar, and I can't just throw all that away."

I gasped, then pressed my fingers to my aching temples. "I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"Well, I mean, I really appreciate your hospitality from last night–"

"Bethany!" I stepped forward suddenly until we were face to face, forcing her by sheer proximity to look me in the eyes. "Bethany, by the… Forget last night. Don't live in a lie. If he loved you, he wouldn't betray you, and he certainly wouldn't hide that betrayal from you. This is a more convenient way out for you, and you know it."

Her expression twisted, and she glanced away. "Violar, I'm carrying his baby," she said wearily.

I bit my lip. "I know that, and I know it complicates things, but…"

"I mean… what I am I gonna do?" She lifted her hand in a helpless gesture. "If I leave, I won't be able to take care of the baby by myself."

"We can help you with that," I insisted, gentle but unyielding. "There are all kinds of children at the mansion – whom you would have seen if you'd stayed around long enough for breakfast instead of running after a sorry fellow who claims to love you, but who doesn't have the decency to make you his wife before he made you his mistress."

She flinched as if I'd struck her. "Violar…"

"That's the truth!" I insisted. "You _have_ to face up to that. I realize the culture here in New York has become lax enough in its rules of social conduct to allow for that sort of behavior as normal, but that doesn't change the truth. The truth is, this man is taking advantage of you. He isn't willing to give everything for the _privilege –_ yes, the _privilege_ – of making you his wife, so that there isn't even the _slightest_ chance that he'll lose the opportunity to live the rest of his life with you by his side. That's the reality of things!"

Bethany was staring at me, a mixture of feelings swirling through her blue eyes: Anger, shock, utter dismay, piercing agony. She was completely speechless. As I looked back at her, I suddenly realized that her blue eyes had triggered loose a whole rush of feelings I'd kept pent up from my blue-eyed Angel. Many of the things I'd told her were things I had been dying to tell Angel for months.

But that wasn't my only motive for saying these things now. I stepped back, giving Bethany a little space.

"It isn't… that I have no sympathy for what you're going through, Bethany," I went on more softly. "I do. I know what it feels like." I swallowed hard. "And I know it's natural to feel attached to the man whom you have given… _everything_ to: Heart, body, soul… your future. Breaking away isn't going to be easy. But you have to face this Derek with the truth, and be willing to face the possibility that he's too much of a cad to want the best woman he's ever had. And you _are_ the best woman he's ever had," I added before she could protest, "because you've given him so much of yourself for two years – because you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him. You remain devoted to him, even knowing that he's betrayed you. Regardless of your less-than-ideal circumstances, you're not merely dwelling with him under the same roof, and that shows a great deal of character in you – because you've continued to love him, in spite of everything."

Bethany bit her lip, on the verge of crying again. Her chin trembled, and she swallowed several times before attempting to speak.

"But… what if this is it for me, Violar? What if there is no one else who could… love me? Especially now… now that I'll have a baby…"

Overcome by sympathy, I stepped forward and brought Bethany into a gentle hug, which she returned. "I can't… see into the future, Bethany," I answered softly. "But I think… that you'll never find out what lies ahead if you settle for a lie. There's no way to know how things are going to turn out, but… you're too sweet and beautiful to be overlooked, I think," I said with a little smile.

Bethany clung to the sleeves of my blouse as she broke down and cried. With a sigh, I pursed my lips and held her close, aching for the things this poor woman was having to go through. Sometimes I see very clearly that I have no right to complain about my own life.

"Hey, uh, Docta Phil, if you're finished over there, I've got uh shirt to return so I kin go on wit' my life," said a portly gentleman with a heavy New York accent. I glanced over at him, sighed softly, and released Bethany. She folded her arms and hunched over protectively with her back to the counter, hiding from customers.

"Go to the breakroom," I whispered in her ear. "Stay there as long as you need to – until you feel better. Don't argue… you'll make a scene in front of everybody. Just go."

Bethany shot me a grateful look, then hurried out from behind the counter. I stepped up to my demanding new customer with a bright smile.

"So, what seems to be the problem?"

*****

Seven hours later, Bethany and I clocked out and traversed the busy parking lot toward her car. The blonde girl had been very quiet and somber, and I sensed what a struggle it was for her to get through the day without suffering a breakdown. Marcia, our boss, had even offered to let Bethany go home early, but Bethany refused. She didn't want to admit defeat, and she needed the money. So she wouldn't quit.

I admired that particular determination in anyone, even as I felt tremendous sympathy for her. I wondered what was going through her mind, but I knew better than to ask. Despite my encouragement – and strong opinions – the decisions ultimately needed to be left to Bethany. Even as we crossed the crowded parking lot, I felt completely shut out.

And I was alright with that – because I shut out everyone when it came to my feelings for Angel. They were very personal, and I needed to deal with them alone.

Once we were seated in her car, Bethany spoke.

"I'll take you to the mansion, Violar. Then I'm going home. Derek and I need to have a talk."

I nodded, inwardly impressed with her resolute tone. "Do you know what will happen?"

Bethany licked one side of her teeth, looking both ways for traffic as she drove the car smoothly out of the parking space. "Uh-uh, no. No clue. But it's something I have to do."

I looked sideways at my coworker and studied her face. The muscles were subtly tightened with inner tension and the blue eyes were dull: The look of a warrior about to plunge into a battle he or she knows they will not survive. I pursed my lips, and my heart went out to Bethany. But I said nothing.

We drove to Xavier's in silence. I stepped out of the car when we reached the gate, then hesitated.

"If you need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me," I assured her. "I'm usually up late."

"Yeah, I know." Bethany managed a tight smile. "Thanks."

I nodded and shut the door, then watched as she drove away. Sending a prayer heavenward to Aslan, I turned and entered my security code into the box, waited for the gates to swing open, and walked slowly up the driveway toward my beautiful community home. In the sunset, the mansion looked timeless and somehow magical.

I ate dinner and curled up in the library to read – and to hide from Angel. If he wanted to conduct a thorough search of the mansion, he'd probably find me, I reasoned. But the lounge was too easy a place to be disturbed. In the library, at least, there were a few lovely window seats. I would see intruders first before they saw me, giving me a second or two to prepare myself before being obliged to engage them in polite conversation.

I was deeply engrossed in _Captains Courageous _when I saw a pair of headlights draw near the front gate. Instantly I snapped the book shut and tossed it onto a table as I ran by. When I reached the door, she was just turning into the parking lot.

The night air was chilly, and I rubbed my upper arms as I waited for her. In a moment she approached, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She looked like a lost puppy, and her eyes were red from crying.

"Hey," she greeted me humbly. She lowered her head. "Do you mind if I… I mean, is it okay if…"

I stepped forward and took her by the hand, drawing her toward the door as her features melted.

"Shh," I whispered, pulling her into a hug as sobs got the best of her. I slid the heavy duffel bag to the ground and held her tightly for a long moment. "This is your home now. Don't worry about anything, Bethany."

When she finally got a hold of herself, I took the duffel bag on my own shoulder and led her into the mansion. The halls were empty, as most of the children had gone to bed in anticipation of early studies the next morning, so I took Bethany straight to her room and got her settled. I made her get ready for bed while I brought up the rest of her luggage from the car, and I situated a few of her own knickknacks here and there to help her feel as if she were in a more familiar environment.

As soon as Bethany got out of the shower, I went down to the kitchen and returned with two cartons of ice cream and two large bars of chocolate.

"I hear this is the traditional way to mend a broken heart," I said, which brought a wan smile to Bethany's sad face. "It beats beer and a hangover." I wrinkled my nose in distaste. "The worst side effect you will suffer from this is a stomachache, but it's a small price to pay to obtain the healing properties of chocolate."

Bethany nodded and took up her spoon, and we sat down together to overdose on dessert. Mostly we were companionably quiet, though once in a while Bethany spoke. I mostly listened, offering a word or two of encouragement. That was all.

The very next morning, I stopped by the Professor's office and spoke with him about Bethany's situation. He made my coworker an official member of Xavier's Institute.

As the days went by, Bethany existed in a kind of impenetrable shell. I kept a close eye on her, but I did not interfere: Her heart had been deeply torn, and it would take a long time to heal. On the days when we were both scheduled to work at Bloomingdale's, Bethany drove us to work in the morning and back in the evening. I made sure she got enough to eat, goading her beyond picking at her plate without any interest at all.

"Think of the baby," was my constant mantra. Bethany, to her credit, was concerned enough with her unborn child to force down dishes she would rather have ignored in her deep sorrow. I tempted her with plenty of desserts, then invited her to read books or watch movies with me – again in companionable silence. But just being there was enough, I reasoned. I just wanted her to know that she wasn't alone.


	4. Along Came Pyro

Barnes and Noble's was a favorite haunt of mine, even on my days off - particularly when January's dreary weather made the ground too muddy for outdoor activities, such as practicing my swordform in the courtyard. As time had gone on, I became more comfortable in my human form, and I found I enjoyed my jaunts into the nearby city - for whatever reason.

And sometimes I just needed to get out of the mansion. Much as I love rainy weather, the shades of gray can cause one to grow more introspective, and the _last_ thing I wanted was time to think.

That particular evening, I left the bookstore with a fresh copy of _The Once and Future King_ tucked safely in my bag. Wrapping my scarf more firmly around my neck, I hurried down the sidewalk, my thoughts consumed with getting back to the mansion in time for dinner. Judging by the muted stormy light, I guessed it was around seven o'clock.

I paused at a crosswalk on a street corner and stuffed my cold hands in my trench coat pockets, then glanced at the fellow next to me. There weren't many people out and about on a rainy New York evening unless they had to be, so I didn't have many people to contemplate; but something about him caught my attention.

He was of medium height, and his lazy stance indicated boredom. He was wearing dark gray pants riddled with wrinkles and a forest green shirt beneath his black leather jacket, and he had on what looked like black combat boots. His hair was ash blonde, and although it was fairly short, he wore it loose and free-flowing. As the wind blew strands of it around his face, he ran a hand over it as if to smooth it back into place. And if I weren't mistaken, he was fully aware of my presence, but he was ignoring me - not the kind of casual ignorance that strangers on the street usually observe, but a very potent ignorance that I could _feel_. He didn't _like_ people, and he wanted nothing to do with anyone.

Strangely enough, that appealed to me. That, and just being in close proximity to him was enough to set my Danger Sense on fire. I studied him carefully: I thrived on danger, and I'd been seeking it out purposefully in more recent months. I wasn't going to pass up this prime opportunity to test my wits against someone who was, for some unknown reason, dangerous.

But there was something else. My forehead wrinkled: I thought I recognized him, but I couldn't be certain. I couldn't see his face that well.

Blurting out, "Do I know you?" was generally a bad idea, so I settled for a more neutral question.

"Excuse me," I addressed him politely. "Can you tell me what time it is?"

_Click_. That was the sound of a shark-mouthed cigarette lighter this boy was flicking open and closed in the palm of his hand. Slowly he turned his head towards me - he had brilliant blue eyes, I noticed - and raised an eyebrow. "Hmm..." He glanced pointedly above and behind me, then returned his cold gaze to mine. "I could make a joke out of this, but I won't. It's ten minutes to seven o'clock. Or time for those stupid reruns to come on TV." There was a sort of disgust in his manner - towards me and all of humanity in general - as he looked away and stared across the street. I barely heard his lowered voice as he added to himself, "And people wonder why I'm not at home."

I stood there, unconsciously frozen, until he turned away. Then I looked over my shoulder. There was a clock tower standing there, and a lighted clock face was fixed into the ornate steeple... and sure enough, it was ten to seven. I realized then why he was mocking me. I suppose anyone who frequented the streets of New York would have known about the clock tower, so I must have come off like an idiot to him (not that it took much), but I was new here. He didn't know that, though, so I forgave him.

"Ah, thank you." I cleared my throat. He was still flicking the lighter open and closed, and once in a while I caught a glimpse of a little flame - not just flickering atop the lighter, but playing in his palm also. I didn't look at the fire for long: Flames were mesmerizing, and now was _not_ the time to be mesmerized.

In fact, now was _not_ the time to stick around and strike up a conversation with this fellow. Call it some warrior's instinct, but one fighter knows another when she meets one. I'd killed before, and I knew with certainty that he also had taken lives. And some sneaky suspicion told me that some who had perished at his hands were innocent.

I also felt that he wouldn't have a qualm about taking _my_ life if I so much as got on his nerves.

My Danger Sense warned me against it, but for once I didn't listen: I felt like starting a conversation with him, so I did. I nodded towards the flame dancing briefly in his palm. "So that's how you stay warm in this miserable weather, is it? You carry your own personal heater with you?" A wry smile quirked at my mouth, but it was of amusement, not derision. "Not a bad idea. But you'd have to be... _gifted_... to handle it."

Because I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the flame should have burnt him. And there wasn't a mark on his skin to show where it had been.

He glanced over at me again, his gaze assessing me from head to toe - which I didn't particularly appreciate - before he met my eyes again. For a moment he stood there, regarding me with pursed lips and slightly narrowed eyes, as if he were deciding whether or not to take the bait. He wasn't the sort of fellow who indulged in conversation, and I found myself hoping that cleverness and an equally superior intellect would draw him out.

It worked. A slow grin spread across his face. "They aren't that hard to control... if you have the ability to do so." And, to my surprise, he let out a very dry chuckle. Despite the fact that he was toying with me, he _was_ intrigued.

But while he was intrigued, he kept flicking his lighter. _Click. Click. Click._

Sudden fierce delight blazed in my eyes. He was challenging me, and the constant snapping of his lighter was an idle threat - akin to me setting my hand on the hilt of my sword whenever I wanted to keep an adversary on his - or her - toes. He was doing that now, warning me with a subliminal message that he was dangerous, and that I shouldn't underestimate him.

I never underestimated anyone, and I certainly didn't take him for granted; but it was intriguing to be so blatantly reminded. Unfortunately I couldn't reciprocate with posturing of my own: I'd left my swords at the mansion since I found out carrying weapons in public was a no-no in New York (unlike how normal it was in Narnia). I had only my dagger - which I'd cleverly disguised as an ornate silver hairclip, and it swept up half of my dark hair, leaving few strands free to dance in the wind. But as for dramatic posturing, there was no way to achieve the same theatrical effect with a dagger, so I didn't bother trying.

I gave him a brilliant smile instead, which he met with a mocking half-grin of his own.

"You're very lucky then, and obviously you know it," I countered. "So how do you keep cool in the summer?"

"By shutting off the flames." With a grin, he flicked the lighter shut (I guess he knew I'd gotten the message) and stepped forward onto the edge of the sidewalk.

"Shutting off the flames!" I repeated. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. I lifted my hands and gaze to the gray heavens with a soft gasp of incredulous dismay. "How childishly simple."

This time, when he smiled, he couldn't hide how amused he truly was. Almost immediately he got rid of that unbidden - and probably unwelcome - smile and replaced it with his habitual bored expression. His attempt to look bored was comical, and I was tempted to imitate it just for the sheer amusement factor. Both of us, pretending to be unaffected? That would've been too much. I suppressed the twinkle in my eyes and tried to maintain my dignified poise, adjusting the strap of my bookbag yet again - just to fiddle with something.

"But then there's a reactivation fee come winter," I told him.

"Yeah," he muttered. "But it's not me who'll be paying."

The cold way he said it sent shivers down my spine, but part of the challenge of engaging him in conversation was _not_ to let him know that I found him dangerous. I was dangerous myself, and he didn't know who he was dealing with. This whole exchange, to me, was part daring, part intellectual chess, and part bluff. I wanted to see how I would measure up in matching wits against someone like him, and the exchange hadn't disappointed.

"Why do you want to know these things anyway?" he asked before I could frame a response.

I took my time answering his question, readjusting the strap of my bookbag over my shoulder first. Glancing across the street, I noticed the orange hand sign flashing again. How many opportunities I'd missed to cross to the opposite sidewalk since the conversation began, I didn't know. But he definitely had my attention.

"Curiosity, mainly," I replied at length. "I've been all over this city, and I haven't seen anyone with a better plan to keep warm than the one you've got. I was just a tad envious." I bit back a broader smile than the one I currently wore, watching cars pass in front of me. I waited until an old man walking a spastic wire-haired terrier tottered past us before continuing. "And I enjoy meeting _exceptionally gifted_ people. There are so many... you never know when you'll run into one." Lifting an eyebrow, I turned a meaningful gaze to his and held it. I wondered if he'd get the hint.

He nodded, his gaze following the terrier. Abruptly I had the distinct feeling that he was avoiding looking at me, and I didn't know why. "There are too many," he said in a low tone, making brief eye contact with me. "I think you just ran into the worst one."

Judging by the way he said it, he didn't "think". He _knew_.

Frankly, so did I. And that wasn't going to stop me.

"The worst one?" I lifted my eyebrows in feigned mild surprise. "The worst at what?" I chuckled softly - out of amusement, not mockery.

_He_ didn't think it was funny. I flinched slightly as he looked away from me, and his lighter started flicking ominously, demanding more respect from me than I was already showing him. He has serious respect issues; then again, so did I, and I was rather enjoying being in good - or bad - company. So I pretended not to notice and went on. "I've met a few, and there are more around here than you think. Keep your eyes open. Who knows? You might get lucky and see one." Mirth fairly brimmed inside of me.

I don't know why I kept teasing him - and antagonizing him. I wanted to push him to the edge and _I don't know why._

_Good thing I'm already an outcast of the Council Ring,_ I mused dryly to myself. _If I weren't already, I would leave voluntarily after this little exchange._

"I don't need to meet any more if I am one," he told me somewhat crossly. "It's not that we're absolutely amazing, as you seem to think." He flipped the lighter shut again and crossed his arms.

I'd stretched the boundaries of his sense of humor - which obviously ended where his pride began. I'd have to be more careful. Still, I smiled. "If I thought as you did, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now," I said quietly. "I've met a great deal of them, and I see another every time I look in the mirror." I nodded my chin towards his hand. "I just... haven't quite mastered the art of taking my own heating system with me quite yet. That _is_ rather impressive... but I imagine you know that already."

That was a bluff, of course. My mutation doesn't allow anything of the sort.

He didn't even look at me, but he seemed absorbed in the sights of the darkening city. I looked around me then. The lights were coming on in shades of neon and white, like earthbound stars, and the strangest sense of euphoria enveloped me: The world was passing us by, and cars hummed steadily along the street, and who knows how many crosswalk signals we had ignored. Glancing over now, I discovered it was just flashing orange: We'd skipped yet another chance to cross the street. But suddenly I wasn't that hungry anymore. I sighed almost contentedly. It had been so long since someone had challenged me to this degree, and I wanted it... even _needed_ it... desperately.

"You're right," he said lowly, and I glanced sideways at him in momentary puzzlement until he went on. "Yeah. They seem to be popping up everywhere now. Soon we'll outdo the humans."

The way he spoke of humans as inferior reminded me of a word Angel used - elitist. I wouldn't begrudge him that, though. Everyone was elitist to some degree or another. Especially centaurs.

And then he was looking at me, and I gazed right back at him, studying him as he was studying me. He didn't meet my eyes: It was then that I noticed how the city lights reflected off his skin in a blue-white color, and I realized that I must look the same way.

He was thinking about something - that much I could tell. And I was curious: I wondered what he was up to. That was one thing about this fellow - "predictable" was not an adjective anyone could use to describe him. Every minute was a fresh surprise, and at the moment I was letting him dictate the pace of our interaction. In truth, I expected him to bring the exchange to a close without warning. When that happened, I knew I'd be keenly disappointed. But not surprised. As it stood, I was surprised our conversation had lasted this long.

Then he made his move. He held his hand, and the lighter, in front of his face and gazed at it with a gleam in his blue eyes that gold miners must have gotten when they beheld the object of their life's quest. And he was smiling - smirking, more like, but _softly_. "More than just a heating system," he murmured, his eyes flicking back to mine.

The brilliance of my own smile receded, and I grew more alert and attentive to his mood. I sensed nothing that caused alarm. In fact, he felt _happy_ to me, but maybe a touch on the morose side. I was wary nonetheless.

"I know," I said in an equally low tone. "It's just one of its many benefits."

His gaze moved back to his shark-mouthed lighter. "So you said you've met other mutants, right?" He raised his eyes to mine and grinned a little. "Ever met one with fire powers?"

Instantly he flipped open the top of lighter, and a baseball-sized ball of flame whooshed into his palm and hovered there, dancing and casting an orange glow on his eager boyish face. Enchanted, I nodded wordlessly to his first question and shook my head to the latter, my gaze lost in the fire. Its flickering seemed to reflect the vacillating moods of its handler - full of instability and uncertainty; rising up and burning with momentary ferocity, then quieting to a comfortable glow. Always it moved, never standing still, like a candle left in a high-traffic area. It reminded me of quiet winter nights back in Narnia, after supper was done and the wooden dishes had been washed in the stream, and the whole world had gone to sleep - except me, entranced by the evening stillness, and the visions caught in the fire, and the stars twinkling down at me.

I let out a soft sigh. Suddenly, I missed my mother.

Swallowing hard, I murmured softly, "It's beautiful."

"Isn't it?" he replied, half to himself, as he watched his own handiwork - as enchanted by it as I was. It was danger and beauty contained in the palm of his hand, fully under his control, and his sheer mastery added to the allure of the flames themselves.

That's how it was for me. For him, though, there was an added element of... something far greater: Power. Control over fire gave him power. I sensed the potential for a great deal more danger: My Danger Sense was never quiet, and it was like a faint hum in the background of my mind while I was in such close proximity to this particular mutant.

But danger was something I thrived on. I both loved and hated it, and I found I needed a certain level of it to feel... _alive_.

Flames were even more important to him. And with that dawning realization came a slight curiosity about what a fire mutant could actually do with flames on a whim.

As if in answer to that question, the flames dimmed momentarily, dying - and then they burst out of his hands in the shape of a small firebird. My expression lit with delighted wonder as I watched it perform a little flight over his open palms.

"I can do anything I want to fire," he told me matter-of-factly, but he wasn't unaffected by my excitement. "Just not create it. Only turn it into what I want." He met my eyes, and I smiled at him. "I also take requests," he added, raising his eyebrows just slightly.

Suddenly I realized he was encouraging me to _ask_ him for something. Feeling like a child at a carnival, I laughed in pure joy, watching the little firebird swoop and soar - sometimes swift as a darting minnow in the shallows, other times slow and graceful like a large heron drifting over the still surface of a twilight lake. Instantly I knew exactly what I wanted.

"Um... alright, this might be difficult," I began with a nervous chuckle, shifting my gaze between him and the firebird. Dare I ask him to craft what I considered my dearest dream? "What about a... a centaur, with wings? A flying centaur? Is that even possible?" I laughed again, but I was nearly breathless with hope.

He thought that over. "Alright." He raised his hands. "Take a few steps back," he ordered in a demanding tone. Almost before I could comply, flames swept down in a great stream of red gold and landed on the sidewalk right in front of me.

I was very nearly caught in the fire. I leapt backwards with a muffled cry and stepped into the street. There was a screech of tires, a wild swerve, a blaring horn, and angry shouting with words I didn't care to remember later.

I hopped quickly forward to safety, my brush with death hardly registering as I stared a dream literally in the face. He was large as life, made all of fire, and he was _alive_: This blazing red-orange creature made the little firebird a mere magician's trick by comparison. Every muscle of his gleaming chest and shining coat was clearly defined in pure flame. He was breathing, and his burning eyes were gazing straight into mine, and they seemed to sear a path all the way to my soul. A shudder ran through my whole body as I stared back, dimly cognizant of the intense heat radiating from him. The wind caused his flaming hair to blow in front of his face, and I was aware of my own hair, half of which had tugged loose from the silver clip, billowing behind me in the same direction.

He was beautiful, and terrible, and awesome, and frightening, and the power of his presence held me spellbound. I was trembling all over. I tried to speak, to say something... and I couldn't. My lips moved, but nothing came out. The vision before me consumed all words and thoughts.

"Almost forgot something," muttered the mutant, and with a slight movement of his hands, huge wings made of fire exploded from the red centaur's back. Each feather was a tongue of flame flickering in the night breeze.

An irrational desire to touch the fiery winged centaur seized me, and before I knew what I was doing, my hand started forward. The moment I was aware, I yanked my hand back and curled my fingers, pressing my fist firmly near my throat. My overwhelmed senses slowly returned, and with it came the knowledge that the mutant had asked me a question.

"This good enough for ya?" His tone, I recognized belatedly, was a little sarcastic.

All I could manage was a slight nod. I felt pale and rooted to the ground. My gaze was still locked with the red eyes of this... this being who lived now by the will of a mutant.

Suddenly the fiery centaur stallion wasn't looking at me anymore. His eyes blazed, and he took a step backwards... and then he broke into a gallop and rushed past me, rising into the air on its flaming wings as he grew to enormous proportions. I whirled and stared as he landed and stomped through a crowd of people who had gathered on the opposite street corner, as captivated by this mutant's creation as I was.

Cold terror jolted me from rapturous reverie as my dream became a nightmare in the blink of an eye. I gave a shrill cry and held out my hand to the terrified people who were running away from the flaming beast. The bookbag slipped from my shoulder and dropped to the sidewalk, but I barely noticed. The sight of a screaming human stampede under attack from a wrathful creature tore at my heart. The centaur stomped through the masses, burning at random and catching clothes on fire. A little blonde girl was running away, her mother engulfed in flames.

Panic woke me from paralysis. "No! Stop!" I shouted after the centaur, as if it were a real living thing and might actually heed my voice. But of course it didn't. Desperately I rounded on the fire mutant, hardly comprehending what was going on. I thought the flames had simply gotten out of his control - or something. "Stop it, please! Stop him!"

I gave a sharp gasp when I saw the fury in his red eyes, and it was as if a bucket of cold water struck me. All at once I knew this was no accident. Desperation turned to anger, and my voice grew hard. "Stop this," I cried. It was still a plea, but a glance over my shoulder at the little girl running for her life and her mother lost in an inferno by his command was swiftly pushing me over the edge. "Stop this!" I took a quick step towards him, drawing the dagger from the back of my head in one swift motion and releasing the rest of my thick, dark hair like a lion's mane around pale face.

He wasn't listening. There was a blaze of glory in his eyes, and suddenly I knew what insanity looked like. I glanced back at the centaur and watched as it melted into a shapeless stream of fire, which darted across the road and crashed through the windows of a coffee shop.

I was furious. I advanced on the fire mutant with murderous intent and stopped short when the fire vanished - though not without a trace. A path of destruction showed where it had been.

The world around me was moving again, whirling out of control. Pandemonium took over. People were running in every direction and cars were jammed on the street. Horns were honking and smoke choked the air. From far away came the faint wail of sirens.

I was breathless, and so was he. I was incredulous at the unprovoked chaos I'd just witnessed, and I glared at this man, seething. I wanted nothing more than to seize him by the collar and throw him up against a wall, demanding to know what he was was doing.

But it was over. It was all over. He had, somehow and for some reason I couldn't comprehend, ended what he'd started, and when he looked over at me, his expression reminded me of a guilty puppy who'd just had an accident on the rug. My fury would be wasted, physical violence would repair nothing, and inherent centaurian wisdom reminded me of that and kept my passionate wrath from consuming me - like this mutant's fire had consumed him. I stood there, breathing in shallow gasps, full of furious disbelief and confusion; and I held the knife between us - almost as an afterthought.

"Why?" was all I asked, taking in his expression through a red fog. A lump tightened in my throat:I just wanted to cry. Somehow he'd made me an unwilling accomplice in an unthinkable crime, and my dearest dream had been the unwitting catalyst. _"Why?"_

As I stood there, battling my own conflicting emotions, he looked around at the turmoil he'd caused as if trying to get his bearings. Then he took a deep breath and returned his gaze to me. The red had gone out of his eyes, leaving them blue and normal again - and somewhat duller.

"Does everything need a reason?" He sounded exhausted, and I remembered what Kurt had said about certain mutant powers being a drain on stamina - like vigorous exercise. This fellow had been controlling a gigantic flame creature (I refused to think of it as a winged centaur any longer). No wonder he was utterly spent.

Anguished weeping broke into my thoughts. Glancing over my shoulder, I found the little blonde girl sobbing in terror beside her mother, who was badly burnt and clearly in pain. My stomach lurched. Being a healer, it's instinctive for me to rush aid to the injured and ailing. At the same time, I was a warrior, and I had the culprit at knifepoint. He'd just done something so horrible that I couldn't wrap my mind around it, and there was _no way_ I was letting him get away from me.

But that sobbing ripped me apart. Scowling in pain, I glanced over again. Help _was_ on the way in the form of ambulances with garishly flashing lights, and some well-meaning stranger already had her arms around the girl. I guessed the stranger, a young blonde woman, was in her 20s, and there was no way she posed a threat to the girl - the expression of pain on her face was far too real. Folks were on cell phones, and thundercloud glares were being aimed towards the fire mutant - and me. Suddenly I knew my intrusion wouldn't be a welcome one.

Turning back to this... this villain, I pursed my lips into such a thin line that I felt them almost disappear. "Maybe not, but I hope for your sake you have a darn good excuse for _that_." I jerked my chin towards the poor little girl in the blonde woman's arms, who managed a watery glare at him. To my rancor, the mutant looked over at the little girl with a blank expression, then looked at me and shrugged as if to say, "Do you think I care?"

I could have slapped him.

But I didn't. There aren't words to describe the agony I was in. My past was brought to the forefront with startling clarity, when I was that little girl - even at 32 years old - sobbing and helplessly watching my mother die. Somehow I'd had a hand in causing this incident on this night... and that infuriated me against this stranger, but the logical side of me knew it wasn't fair for me to take out my broken past on him.

Part of me wanted to remain and let the mutant face the music, but for some reason I couldn't define - which agitated me into a worse state of anger, probably because it went against my inherent sense of justice - I wanted us to get out of there. Part of my justification for that was my recent studies of human-mutant history, and how the human-controlled law system was notorious for mistreating and misjudging mutants - even mutants who deserved what they got.

Besides, this fellow wasn't going to let himself get captured. That'd have been obvious to anyone, even an off-world centaur like me. He'd torch the whole police force first. He was certainly capable of it, and I'd have been shocked to learn he'd never done anything like that before.

I wasn't about to let that happen - not if I could help it. I already felt partially responsible for the accident in the first place. The winged centaur _had_ been my idea, after all, and the thought of it made my already nauseated stomach roil threateningly.

I tucked my dagger into my belt and glared at him. "Well, let's get out of here while we still can," I snapped in a low tone. The idea of running from the law - or aiding someone who definitely deserved what he had coming to him - sickened me. I was _supposed_ to be one of the good guys, and now I was on the other side of the fence...

Again. I hadn't always been one of the good guys. I'd never intentionally hurt innocents, but there are other ways... and I'd found them. Engaging oneself in an unnecessary battle, even against slavers, counted as unnecessary bloodshed. What this mutant had done hit close to home - far too close for comfort. Abandoning him now would be the same as abandoning myself, even though what he'd done was something I loathed with every fiber of my soul. My stubborn streak surfaced, and my grief was buried under a lackluster determination. I glowered at him without much spirit. "Well?"

He looked rather weary - and troubled. "Yeah, I think we should." He walked towards me, his steps quick until he came to a sudden stop right in front of me. He didn't look me in the eyes. "I don't expect you to come," he muttered in a low tone, sounding as defeated as I felt. Then he moved past me and disappeared in the crowd, leaving me feeling like a lonely island in the midst of an angry ocean.

Great. A guilt trip. An unintentional one, but it wrenched at me nonetheless. If I abandoned him now, what good would it do? Then again, what good would going after him do?

For a moment I stood there, utterly heartsick and at a total loss. And then I made my decision.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was my stubborn nature. Maybe it was my past. Maybe it was because I felt partial responsibility for the disaster, or maybe it was because I was desperate to know if he really was hopeless. Or maybe it was a combination of those things. Whatever my motivation, I suddenly darted into the crush of humanity and pushed my way through the masses, barely taking in a swirl of colors from jackets and sweaters and trench coats like mine. I didn't see any of those faces...

I thought the night couldn't get any worse. And I was wrong.


	5. When You Need A Friend

I'd lost Pyro - and my bookbag.

The bookbag wasn't that big a deal: It contained a few dollars, a handful of papers - mostly applications for workplaces that never panned out - and _The Once and Future King._ The idea of losing Pyro, though, was awful, and I felt myself growing frantic as I pushed and shoved through the tightly-packed crowd, listening to the approaching wail of sirens and searching for the blonde fire mutant who had just turned my night into a nightmare.

At last I had a glimpse of green and gray before I lost him again. "By the _mane_ you move fast," I gritted out.

At last I emerged from the crush and found the boy striding away like a shadow in the darkness. Stuffing my cold hands into my trench coat pockets, I followed him without a word, somewhat huffily. I was angry with myself, I was angry with the fire mutant... I was angry with the world at large. My emotions were a total mess. In cold silence, I walked after him, wrapped deep in my own thoughts.

He didn't seem to notice me. I didn't care.

The world was a blur to me as I moved through it, like a shadow lost in the fog. I felt as if my thoughts wandered through a fog, too: I could hardly think straight, and it was as if I were trying so hard _not_ to think that I actually succeeded. I wanted to think, but self-preservation wouldn't allow it.

Suddenly he stopped. I stopped also, knowing that he was about to confront me. My gaze was riveted on the ground, but I was very aware of this mutant: I was watching him with my peripheral vision, but mostly I kept track of him via my danger sense: Every delicate mood shift was like a faint color, which I had to interpret; or a chord of music, which I had to develop an ear for. I was still in the process of learning to interpret that sense. Right then I was very attuned to Pyro, and I felt mostly confusion - especially confusion over an unwanted pang of remorse.

"Why are you following me?" he asked in a low voice, turning his head slightly but not looking at me over his shoulder. He sounded tired more than anything, and it hurt something inside of me to hear it. He deserved it but... Aslan, I couldn't bear to hear another mutant suffering...

I remembered other nights when it had been _me_ suffering. I have the heart of a healer, not a warrior (which I didn't fully comprehend until recently), and when circumstances forced me to take a life, it ate at my very soul. What I wouldn't have given for arms to fall into and a shoulder to cry on during those endless nights... and yet, even if I'd had someone, I'd have pushed them away. I felt unworthy of being comforted. The way I felt was my fault; somehow I had to get out of it myself.

This fellow undoubtedly felt even worse.

I didn't move. I stood there, my gaze downcast, feeling the night wind bat tendrils of stray hair about my face.

Finally I spoke. My voice was whisper-soft, barely edging above the wind. "I don't know." That was the honest truth, but it was painful for me to admit: Centaurs always, _always_ knew exactly what they were doing. They always had a plan and they always had the world under control.

But I... I was different. I realized that fate was out of my hands - perhaps like this mutant's fire had gotten out of his. Control was largely an illusion: A comforting one, and an addictive one, for some; but an illusion nonetheless. The more one believed in that illusion, the harder it was to let go of in order to accept reality.

Conveying all that to this stranger, though, was going to be an impossible challenge. At the moment, it wasn't terribly important either: I was thinking too much along tangent lines in order to stay away from the main subject, and I knew it.

He stamped his foot like an impatient horse. My time for contemplation was up. Instead of guessing at his feelings aloud, which he might resent, I'd take the sole blame for this one.

"Maybe I just didn't want to leave you alone." I sighed, burying my hands deeper in my pockets and shivering slightly.

Slowly he turned to face me, his expression somewhat sullen. "What, are you another one who wants to keep me out of trouble?"

The statement was so ludicrous that I flushed and smiled against my will, lowering my head. Under other circumstances, I'd have chuckled aloud. But this was neither the time nor the place.

"No, it's not that." Taking a deep breath until the muscles in my neck stood out from sheer tension, I schooled my features into proper sobriety. My gaze came up and met his, unwavering. "We have more in common than you think."

He cocked a dubious eyebrow at me. "What could we possibly have in common?"

Rather impulsively, I took a few steps toward him to close the distance between us, pausing a few feet away to look up at him hopefully. "It doesn't seem like a centaur and a mutant who can control fire would have a lot in common. But we do, actually. It's a really long story though. And," I added as if for further justification, "It's a policy of mine never to carry on an enjoyable conversation with a complete stranger... without at least finding out their name."

To my surprise, that made him smile - just a little, but it was there. "St. John," he replied, and then after a hesitation he added, "Or Pyro."

"Pyro fits," I mused quietly. "Which do you prefer?"

"You choose." Judging from his tone of voice, he honestly didn't care. His sharp blue eyes were on me again. "What about you? If you don't give me a name soon I'll address you as 'Sheila' for the rest of this little chat." But his words were supplemented by a little grin.

"Sheila!" I repeated, chuckling and shaking my head. I actually _liked_ the name, coming from him. "Sorry. I'm Violar... actually, my last name is Wildfire. Thought you might appreciate that," I added with another smile when he had a predictably favorable reaction to my surname.

He shrugged casually. "Nice last name," he muttered as if it were something he shouldn't have been saying, but a tiny grin crept over his lips.

I smiled back at him. "I think I'll call you St. John. It's a... _less flammable_ name."

Pyro, of course, was short for "pyromaniac" - which this young man was, without a doubt.

How easily I slipped back into my relentless teasing of a few moments before. Whatever prompted it? Desperation, perhaps? I wasn't about to dwell on it, though. I was rather enjoying it yet again. And it made the sick feeling in my stomach subside, which brought about another realization.

"I'm _really_ hungry," I said. "I could tell you more about me over dinner, if you like. I'm, um... I kind of lost my bookbag back there. I had a few dollars with me - nothing much to speak of."

"I've got money. You don't have to repay me," he answered, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. I noticed it was a peculiar habit of his to stand on either one side or the other, giving him a perpetually lazy demeanor. And when he wasn't staring at me (he never merely gazed, but _stared_), he acted as if he were ignoring me. "I know a place we can go to eat."

"But... when we get back to the mansion, I can repay you."

He looked as if he'd touched a livewire. His eyes snapped to mine, his expression blank. "Wait... do you mean the X-Mansion?"

I gazed back at him, feeling my smile fade and my brow furrow worriedly. He obviously had something against the X-mansion. Nevertheless, truth was truth: I nodded. "Um-hm. I've been there since this past August."

"What?" Pyro seemed bewildered - and angry. Without warning he turned his back on me and walked off.

For once, I was uncertain: Something had upset him, but it was hard to tell exactly _what_. The flaming centaur incident might've been catching up with him in bits and pieces. What did the mansion have to do with anything?

I took a step after him, thinking perhaps he was heading to the restaurant after all and wanted me to follow him, when a wave of dark emotion stopped me in my tracks. _Hatred. Pure, liquid hatred._ I might've called it _cold_ hatred, except this was Pyro: His hatred burned like a restless volcano.

Before he'd gotten very far, he turned and stared me down again. "You aren't an X-Man, are you?"

For a moment I wondered if he hated outcast mutants who weren't X-Men. That was something I could understand, after all: The centaurs of the Council Ring were cliquish like that, and any centaur who wasn't _in_ wasn't welcome in many other parts of Narnia. And Council centaurs, of course, snubbed them.

Was Pyro doing this to me?

That really hurt. Shamefaced, I lowered my head. "No, I'm not." My voice was very quiet.

"No?" He was somewhat surprised.

He was piercing me with a fiery stare. Feeling his scrutiny, I tilted my chin a little higher, but I refused to meet his eyes. I was proud, and I didn't like being disdained simply for my outcast status. That needled me in a way nothing else could, and I set my jaw as I held my haughtily regal pose.

Anger swept through me - from him. I could tell he didn't appreciate my attitude. "But you associate with them though."

His remark shattered all my preconceptions, and I again found myself grappling with confusion. He obviously didn't like it that I was with them. So why would he say...?

"Whatever," he interrupted impatiently. "Let's just go." And he strode off down the sidewalk.

I hurried after him, hopelessly lost. Trying to figure him out was giving me a headache, but it was interesting. If this exchange had been accident-free, I might've simply enjoyed the challenge. As it was, I felt a bit more pressure than that, because _not_ figuring him out was, on occasion, a matter of life or death. Not just for me, but for the rest of New York.

He acted tough. And he was, to a degree. But I knew that those who were toughest fell hardest, and those who were toughest usually GOT that way because they were once more sensitive than normal, and simply gave up on the world long ago.

But maybe... maybe it didn't have to be like that for him. Maybe I could show him that at least one person wasn't going to give up on him. Granted, I wasn't the whole world, and being only one person has its drawbacks: I'm the exception to the rule. But I had to try.

In an attempt to restore our fragile bond of mutual camaraderie, I guessed, "So what is it tonight, barbecue?"

That was sort of a bad joke.

He didn't notice, thank the Lion. "Depends on what you feel like. I couldn't care less what we eat."

It was amazing - the constant flow of shifting emotions in the air around Pyro. It kept me fully awake and alert. I imagined prolonged exposure would wear me down eventually - like the brutally reckless tide crashing against a seashore - but right then I was fully capable of handling it. I even appreciated the distraction value.

I was closing the distance between us easily - too easily, and suddenly I realized he'd slowed down to wait for me. Something inside me softened. That was rather nice of him, and it told me that I was - at least partially - right about him not wanting to be alone right then. If I'd walked away from him back on that street corner after the atrocities he'd committed right before my eyes, there was no telling _where_ he'd be right now, or to what depths he would have fallen, deep inside.

I decided to tease him. "I'm _not_ eating fried bananas. Or escargot, which they have in France in horrible abundance... yugh." I shuddered at the awful memory.

He slowed his pace still further... _and_ backpedaled until he was only a few feet ahead of me. We weren't side by side, but he was glancing at me every so often: He had a strange way of showing how much he appreciated company. Still, I lowered my head to hide my expression of shock. It was a small gesture, to be sure; but coming from Pyro, that small gesture meant much more than it would have coming from an ordinary person.

"I have nothing to say about the French."

Inwardly I shivered at his cold tone, but I gave a soft, merry laugh. "Don't tell me you got sick on their food once and will never forgive them."

"Worse than that." He was frowning. "I've been there, for more time than I wanted." Obviously he didn't want to talk about it.

The prospect of food made my deprived stomach grumble, pleading with me to satiate it. It also provided the perfect change of subject.

Suddenly I smiled out of pure mischief. "I'm in the mood for _grass_," I told him, a low undercurrent of laughter rippling through my voice. He didn't react to a comment he probably considered highly unusual. "But I'll settle for Chinese. Or... well... you know, I love Chinese, but I'm not terribly used to the cuisine around here. It's very different, compared to... where I'm from. Wherever you take us, I'm sure there'll be _something_ edible _somewhere_ on the menu. Just a hunch."

"There's a Chinese restaurant up here," he said, glancing briefly at the darkened buildings and the night sky. "I think it might be the only thing open right now."

I nodded, and we walked together in companionable silence until we reached the Chinese restaurant - which was a fairly ordinary-looking building with a red neon OPEN sign inviting visitors. As Pyro had said, there weren't many places open that late, and that alone made the Chinese restaurant unusual. Otherwise the restaurant looked exactly like the other plain, commercial, half-run-down storefronts lining the street.

Despite its lack of aesthetic personality, it housed _food_. Tonight, that was good enough for me.


	6. Chess Over Chinese

Pyro quickened his pace to the restaurant door and reached it before I did. He swung it open and slipped inside, disappearing into the interior ahead of me. I dashed to the door and caught it just before it closed. I didn't receive any special treatment from him; then again, I didn't really expect it.

Welcome warmth enveloped me as I stepped into the neat establishment, and soft instrumental Chinese music played in the background. I smiled at a short Chinese waiter in a smart black suit and bowtie, and I waved to him as I moved away, looking for Pyro. I found him seated in a secluded booth in the corner.

I guessed he's chosen it for the privacy factor, and I was glad of that. He glanced up at me as I seated myself across from him, then he watched me while I shrugged out of my light-colored trench coat. I wondered briefly why that simple action intrigued him. I suppose Pyro wasn't used to having many people around - especially not women. Women are generally a fragile species, and our more delicate tendencies prompt us to appreciate the stable company of the predictable and the safe. Pyro provided neither. The only reason I'd stayed with him wasn't to revel in his company, but because I felt he needed a friend - and I knew I could handle myself. Had I been anyone but a warrior centaur, I wouldn't have been there, and he would have been spending that night alone.

Momentary sympathy welled inside of me, but it dissipated almost immediately. Pyro acted bored - with everything, including me. Wondering if I'd misread him, I rubbed the chill from the arms of my black turtleneck - grateful for real indoor heat to replace the artificial insulation of my trench coat - and looked around.

"Ah, this is nice. Thank you, St. John." I smiled at him briefly, then sent my gaze skidding from one side of the table to the other, searching for a menu of some kind and finding nothing. "Um... so, what do we do now?" I wondered, glancing quizzically at Pyro again.

He stuck his head into the aisle. "Just wait," he said in a low voice, craning this way and that as if searching for someone. Suddenly he spotted a waiter. "Hey!" he shouted, and I tensed, wondering what Pyro was going to do to the poor man.

The short Chinese waiter whipped around and hurried over, and I started at the furious expression on Pyro's face. Paralyzed, I watched with wide eyes as Pyro snapped at the man.

"We've been waiting here for half an hour. What's going on?"

Shocked, the waiter bowed anxiously at us. "So sorry... so sorry... I'll get right to it," he muttered in heavily-accented English. He scurried off to the kitchen as if Pyro had set his pants on fire.

Pyro turned to me and smiled innocently. "It makes them go faster."

I stared at him in shock. Then I lost it.

Folding both arms over the tabletop, I dropped my head into them and muffled a sudden gush of laughter. Never mind his lack of honesty; that stunt was... very well done, and hilarious. And relatively harmless.

Once my laughter subsided, I peeked out of my self-made fortress and met Pyro's gaze. He was smiling a little, amused by my reaction - and pleased, I think.

"Well... nice." I dropped my head again and stifled a second surge of laughter. It felt so good to laugh after the fiery tragedy of that night.

When I surfaced again, I found Pyro reading a menu, and after I took a moment to marvel at the interesting light fixture with intricate stained glass designs swirling over it - the like of which we don't have anywhere in Narnia - Pyro and I held a brief conference on what to order. I decided on orange chicken and chow mein, which I associated with pleasant, secure company - and perhaps that's why I chose it. He picked sweet and sour chicken. With the important details out of the way, Pyro set aside the menu and looked across the table at me, abruptly serious.

"It's weird... I had questions before we came here, but I forgot everything." Sighing, he looked away, his usual lazy expression taking the place of the nice smile that had illuminated his face a moment before. Already I missed it.

"That is odd," I agreed, leaning forward to rest my elbows on the table. I clasped my hands under my chin and studied him, somewhat puzzled. "Well, I suppose I could start, and maybe that will help jog your memory - or give you new questions to ask."

Distractedly he reached over and flipped the discarded menu shut, then shoved it off to his right. And then I had his full attention: Resting his hands on the table, he stared me down as if I were an adversary, not a dinner companion. Yet he wasn't menacing me on purpose - I don't think. It was his usual demeanor around other people. Pyro wasn't exactly a social butterfly.

I sighed, staring down at the smooth gray tabletop while wondering where to start. Then my steady gaze met his again. "I'm not... a normal mutant, or what might be considered normal by your standards. I'm not exactly sure what my mutation is. I've heard that mutants in this world start out as humans until their teenage years, and then their mutation manifests, often traumatically... tearing families apart and so on."

His gaze ripped from mine, and I felt a quick jab of emotional pain from him. I winced, and as I looked at him, I wondered what his story was like. But I didn't want to ask - not yet. After a moment I went on, and his blue eyes rose to mine again.

"I'm... I'm a centaur, St. John." His eyebrows went up. "I was born a centaur in a land called Narnia. Aslan, the creator and lord of Narnia - who most often appears in the shape of a great and very beautiful lion - gave me this." I tugged at the collar of my black turtleneck, revealing the sapphire choker hidden beneath. Pyro stared at it. "He allowed me to do something no other centaur has done before: I can change shapes, and look like you see me now, so I can fit in better with the worlds I visit. Or, I can look like a centaur. It's all dependent on this choker."

His eyes flicked to mine as I released my collar and let it snap against my neck. "A centaur?" he asked with a half-grin that told me, in no uncertain terms, that he didn't believe me. Do I really look... and act... that normal to him? I wondered suddenly, startled. Perhaps I was blending into New York better than I thought. "Those don't even exist," he was saying. "How..." He trailed off, a little confused. "So... if you don't have that necklace on, you'll turn back into some... horse thing?"

A shock of panic raced down my spine, and I paled. I'd had nightmares about losing my choker. I clutched reflexively at my throat - and the choker. "Oh no no, it's not that. If I didn't have my choker, I'd be... kind of stuck." I flinched back slightly and lowered my eyes, reliving a handful of the all-too-vivid dreams. "I wouldn't be able to turn back into... whatever form I wasn't at the time."

It was a horrible thing to contemplate, so I scrambled for safer - and more familiar - footing. "I'm not a horse," I continued with sudden vehemence, though I remained calm. Dropping the hand at my throat, I explained. "I have nothing to do with horses. There are no horses in my ancestry. Aslan made me a centaur - neither human nor equine." I gave a firm nod to punctuate my statement. This was a sore point for me, and it wasn't the first time someone had associated me with a horse. It even happened in Narnia, and all centaurs were touchy on the subject. "But I do look... somewhat like one. I have four hooves and a tail. I'm, you know, a centaur. To change back and forth, I just touch the sapphire. That's all."

Pyro watched me and occasionally stared at my neck - at the hidden choker - but he didn't argue. Whatever he was thinking, he didn't share.

With a sigh, I moved forward and rested my chin on my folded hands, returning my gaze to Pyro's. "But my other form is... well, it wasn't greeted kindly in New York." I chuckled, but mirthlessly, and my gray eyes lost some of their brilliance. "I was followed by two men in black suits, and I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't run into Angel entirely by chance. He sent me to... to safety," I amended, consciously avoiding the topic of the mansion yet again, "and he took a bullet through the wing for it. He's better now - I took care of him; you know, bandaged his wing and everything - but it was quite dreadful, so I don't like going out as an eight-foot-tall centaur anymore."

I didn't say I didn't. I said I didn't like to. That was a purposeful choice of words on my part, because while I wouldn't lie, there were certain habits of mine that I didn't want to admit, either. As for why I went out as a centaur? I had my reasons for it. I had a simple choice: Either suffocate in misery or face a little danger of my own making. It didn't hurt anyone else, and I wasn't ready to give up the fight to get over my own troubles. That left me with one final option: Danger. So I took it.

"Smart," Pyro affirmed with a little chuckle.

I cleared my head with a quick shake. Suddenly I giggled. "You're laughing?! It was quite dreadful, I assure you. They seemed very angry to have a centaur in their midst, which I know now was because they thought I was a mutant. As it turns out, they were right, I suppose. And then when Angel..." I broke off, my gaze darting to the aisleway to hide my pained expression. I had gone through a lot on Angel's behalf, and I didn't want to relive it - not now.

"Still sounds like a horse to me," he said. I swiveled my sharp gaze back to his, and he didn't seem to care that he'd deliberately offended me. "Well I don't think most of New York is used to seeing some tall... centaur thing running around their streets."

I studied him for a moment. "You know how you hate being grouped with humans, St. John?" I began with teacherly patience, searching his eyes for the animosity I knew was there. I felt hatred crash into him, but his expression betrayed nothing. Pyro could be a master at hiding his emotions - a skill I was too familiar with. I went on. "I hate being grouped with horses. It's somewhat... demeaning. I'm above horses, and humans," I said before I caught myself. My eyes widened, then went down to the table as I sought a way to correct my mistake. "I mean... we're different. We have some passing resemblance, but that is all."

Irritated, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. That was a perfect Freudian slip if I'd ever made one. I was trying to act differently than my kindred. I even tried to believe differently. But when it came right down to it, I still considered myself superior. And I didn't want to. In Narnia, Talking Horses should have been my equals, but I still viewed centaurs as higher up on Aslan's ladder than even Talking Horses.

"I still don't see the difference," he muttered lowly.

Feeling color rise in my cheeks, I lowered my eyes. "There isn't a difference, St. John," I said softly. "There are a whole slew of differences. But I'll... I'll show you what I look like after we leave here."

Almost immediately I regretted my strange offer. Shapeshifting in front of anyone, especially people I didn't know well, was difficult for me. Unfortunately it was too late to take it back.

But Pyro had a vastly different reaction. "You'll show me?" he asked, his expression brightening. "Great."

His enthusiasm made me smile, calming my immediate nerves, and I clasped my hands in my lap. It was nice that he seemed to appreciate my offer to show him what I looked like. If I was going to take such a drastic risk, at least he wasn't pretending to be indifferent about it. It was greatly heartening and... it almost made my impulsive offer worth the pain it would cause my pride.

"So where is Narnia or whatever you were talking about?" he asked with a hint of skepticism (for which I couldn't blame him). "It's not on the maps."

"Narnia is another world, or... I don't understand this at all," I admitted, "but some call it another dimension. I don't know what that means. All I know is that I can find the threshold and cross over." I paused, suddenly thoughtful. "I could draw you a map of it, I suppose. It's an impressive place, and I've been all over it." Sudden melancholy descended over me. "I have been all over it," I said again, greatly subdued. "After my parents died when I was 32, I became something of a wanderer. I lived in the desert for six years and became a warrior."

"Hm." He gave me a dull smile, then picked up a fork and clicked it occasionally against his lighter, acting as if he really wanted to click the lighter open and shut again. It was then that I realized how much control his lighter had over him. Fire mesmerized me, but for him? Fire was necessary to his very survival. Without it, he might go crazy.

I puffed out my cheeks, propping my chin on my folded hands. Pyro was addicted to fire.

We were interrupted then by a waiter requesting drink orders.

"Water," clipped Pyro without looking at him. He was staring across the table at me instead.

I was much more personable. I asked for the same, but smiled and thanked the man kindly.

Once we were left alone, Pyro questioned me about Aslan. I described the Great Lion in my usual glowing terms.

"You're a religious one, aren't you." He cocked an eyebrow at me.

I burst out laughing. "Me, a religious! Well, yes." Still smiling, I looked up at the waiter who returned to serve us our waters, and after I thanked him again, we placed our orders - and Pyro again gave his in a curt tone, behaving as if the man weren't there. I was embarrassed by Pyro's behavior - though not unduly surprised by it - and felt I had to make up for it by being doubly courteous to our host. I looked the waiter straight in the eyes as I spoke and gave him my best smile.

Pyro watched as the waiter made his way to the kitchens, then he pulled his glass of water close and looked down at it. "I'm not for religion," he told me quietly.

I expected that. I simply nodded and picked up my own marbled-plastic glass for a sip of water. The plastic nubble felt interesting under my fingertips, as if the cup were constructed entirely of Braille.

"That was me once, too," I said quietly. "In a way, it still is. I only trust Aslan so much and no more." I didn't appreciate that fact, but it was true. Religion seemed a shallow comfort for mortals destined to die - until you met Aslan for yourself and understood what his love was really all about. Once, that was all I considered Aslan: An emotional crutch. I had a feeling that was Pyro's point of view as well.

A moment later, he confirmed my guess. "I don't see why I would need it, or anyone for that matter." He stopped there and wouldn't meet my eyes, and I had the fleeting impression that he didn't want to risk offending me.

I smiled softly. That was extraordinarily thoughtful of him, but completely unnecessary. I understood where he was coming from, so I told him my story.

"I didn't always like Aslan as I do now. Nor did I serve him, at all." I gazed seriously at Pyro. "I blamed him for not saving my parents from death, and I hated him, St. John... I hated him," I said fiercely, my eyes blazing suddenly at the vivid memory. "After I spent six years in the desert, cheating death and the slavers that would have captured me and sold me like some animal to add to a prince's menagerie, Aslan came to me. That in itself is a long story, but he wasn't responsible for my parents' deaths any more than I was." My emotions smoothed out again, like a stormy sea returning to its naturally calm state. "He promised to be everything to me, and he was, and he is. Normally creatures see him once in a while, but Aslan and I are very close, now. He's taken the place of my parents, in a lot of ways... though I still miss them."

Pyro's eyes flinched from mine at the mention of my deceased parents. Looking down at the table, he didn't say anything in reply, withdrawing into something deeper than silence.

My heart clenched: Something about my testimony must've triggered very personal memories for him. I started to reach across the table out of automatic habit, then hesitated.

Pyro was the kind of person who scorned weakness. He would never admit that he had weakness in his character either. But I couldn't bear to sit there and watch him suffer, so even at the risk of appearing weak in his eyes, I reached across and briefly touched his hand. His hand jumped like a startled rabbit, but he didn't move otherwise. I pulled away just as quickly - in as natural and smooth a motion as possible. I didn't want to betray how nervous I was about reaching out to him, and I wasn't sure how much solace he would accept, especially from a stranger.

At once, I knew the answer: Not much. He glanced warily at me, then adjusted his posture and cleared his throat, trying to act unaffected and untouchable - as if nothing were hurting him. But my Danger Sense told me otherwise.

I took another sip of my water before continuing my story - partially to alleviate his immediate discomfort. "I love Aslan, now. It's surprising, considering the fiery hatred I had for him before. I blamed him for everything, St. John... everything. My parents were my whole world."

I felt I needed to tell him what happened to me so he would understand why I depended on Aslan now... and perhaps he would see enough logic in it that he...

I hardly dared hope.

Drawing a shattered breath, I pulled myself together. "Centaurs are a herding people," I went on, pleased to note that he was no longer dwelling on anything except my tale. Our exchange from only a moment before seemed forgotten. "We have a large community at the Council Ring, a highly respected and revered institution in Narnia. It's gone straight to their heads, and centaurs are now largely proud. Pride prevents wisdom, and wisdom is what centaurs are known for. It's our job to be wise, to have all the answers, and we're getting so stuck-up and superior that we couldn't tell a turtle to live in its shell." I shook my head. "So my parents, who didn't subscribe to that mode of behavior, left the Council Ring, and when I was born, my family was my herd. So when my father was ambushed and killed by werewolves, and my mother died from grief a month later, I lost... everything. I was utterly desolate and completely alone."

I sighed. "Maybe that's why Aslan didn't blame me for my anger. I don't know. But when he came to me that night in the desert, I expected to find condemnation and judgment. What I found instead pierced me to the heart: His beautiful golden eyes were full of sympathy and love, St. John... so much love that I couldn't contain it."

I smiled at St. John. "Now, maybe it makes more sense why I serve him with undying devotion. I am religious because religion came to me, and Aslan saved me. When you realize the truth, that you can't get along on your own, Aslan becomes your whole world, and then... nothing else really matters in the grand scheme of things."

He stared at me, strangely riveted. Then he straightened and seemed to realize my account had come to an end. "Yeah," he started. "I really don't know what to say about you and your... world... and all that." He traced small circles on the tabletop, pondering. "It's just... a lot."

I wasn't quite sure what to make of that, and Pyro wasn't the world's best communicator. Setting his hand down on the table again, he placed his right hand by his side, underneath the table. In a few second the sound of the lighter opening and shutting could be heard again.

My eyes went to his side of the tabletop, as if I could see the lighter flicking open and shut beneath it. A slight indentation appeared in my forehead. It was dangerous to play with fire in a restaurant like this, which Pyro undoubtedly knew. And flames couldn't exactly get out of hand for Pyro because they were always under his control. It was then that the full weight of the risk I was taking dawned on me: Pyro could burn down this restaurant on a whim, with me in it, and go on with his life like nothing happened.

Never mind the fact that I was at risk: Everyone else in this restaurant was at an even greater risk than I was. Pyro hadn't hurt me thus far. And he could have. But I had brought Pyro here and, by doing so, had unwittingly put more lives in danger.

I glanced briefly around the restaurant. Another young couple a few tables away seemed to be on a date, judging by the happy blush coloring the girl's cheeks and the attentive expression the young man wore. Three businessmen in suits and ties sat at another table, gravely discussing the stock market and the uncertain state of the economy over plates of sesame chicken. Two blonde women in their late twenties were sharing stories from their childhoods and laughing. A family consisting of a mother, a father, and three children - two boys and a girl who seemed to be the boss - were enjoying a night out on the town. And an elderly graying gentleman with noble features and a beautiful brunette woman were speaking in soft tones over piles of eggrolls and crab rangoon: A father and a daughter, not unlike Eolas and me, sharing Chinese food and a heart-to-heart about life in general.

My heart ached as I looked from one group to the other, my sharp ears catching snippets of conversation. I shuddered. They were all in danger. And it was my fault. Thoughts of what to do about it tumbled rapidly through my mind, but before I could act on any of them, Pyro made a statement that jolted me.

"I'm sorry about your parents."

That caught me off-guard. "I..." I swallowed hard, suddenly more fragile than before. Reaching over, I pulled a napkin free from its companions and set it before me, then began to meticulously fold it in squares and triangles - just to have something to concentrate on besides still-fresh grief. It was another moment before I trusted myself to speak. "It's alright, now. Thank you, St. John." And I meant it.

An uneasy silence settled over us, but I wouldn't let it last long. Realizing I had monopolized the conversation a little, partially because I sensed it'd be easier on the less-talkative Pyro, I looked up at him with genuine curiosity. "What's your life like, St. John?" I wondered. "Where do you go? What do you do?"

He didn't like the question. I knew it when he withdrew, mentally and physically; leaning back against the bench seat with a thoughtful expression. I half expected he wouldn't answer, and I was thinking madly for another topic of conversation when I actually saw him change his mind.

"My life?" he asked, looking over to me. He gave a mild shrug. "It's not that great... nothing interesting." St John looked over to the side of the table and hesitated again, but to my surprise - and awe, and a feeling of being intensely honored to be allowed this small window into his private life - I knew he was going to tell his story. "I don't do anything except set things on fire. All day long I stay out in the city, and then go home and do the same thing the next day."

The fact that Pyro didn't have a job wasn't lost on me. He was a regular street thief and, technically, a thug. A thug who had the ability to control fire.

I sat back, regarding him a shade soberly. I should have guessed these things about him already. But then again, there were so many things to guess at that I'd let that minor detail fall by the wayside.

"There is nothing to tell," he went on haltingly. "Life was good until I was a teenager... and I've been living like this ever since."

My napkin was folded tight again, and I idly tossed it away. It was so stiff that it remained folded and landed upright as a miniature white triangle. I ignored it.

The tantalizing aromas wafting from the kitchen made my head swim and my stomach rumble greedily, and that made it difficult for me to concentrate on my present company. But I needed to concentrate. I wasn't sure what to ask him, so I settled for a mutual point I'd already brought up in my own life. "What happened to your parents, St. John?"

"My parents," he echoed with a soft sigh and looked down, growing introspective. He was quiet for a little while.

Very quiet: Even his lighter had stopped clicking. Picking up my water glass, I absently swirled the lemon wedge around with the ice cubes while I watched Pyro in his space of deep contemplation. Then I gazed at the lighter strapped to his wrist when he returned his hand to the tabletop, and I wondered why he suddenly stopped messing with it. But I knew better than to ask. If his lighter meant anything close to what my swords meant to me - and I rather imagined it did - I wouldn't tell just anyone about them, especially so shortly after we met.

And Pyro had made it clear that, since I associated with the X-Men, we were practically enemies. I winced: That hurt. But he was right. Pyro and I were on opposite sides of the line.

"If you really want to know," Pyro interrupted my gloomy train of thought, gazing at me with apprehension, "I..." He leaned back in his seat and broke eye contact. Then he acted resigned, almost as if he didn't care. "When I was a teenager, about thirteen, my powers started to show up and..."

By his second sentence, I suddenly knew. My face paled. As the story progressed, so did the rising fear in my own heart, fueled by the fear I felt in Pyro's.

"My mother died a few years before that and my father wasn't... the same. He became violent, didn't help me with it, and we both had almost no communication skills." Pausing for a moment, he looked off to the side. "We would always fight, argue, yell. I had always liked fire, carried a lighter around with me all the time."

_...Oh God no..._

"One night we started yelling. Nothin' different, but.. it was so weird." Pyro looked up to meet my eyes. His were filled with sorrow, fear... and even regret. I couldn't tear my gaze away. "It got out of hand and earlier in the week I was feeling this burning feeling throughout my body. I didn't know what it was until..." He sighed and balked with his body language, as if not wanting to tell me the rest of the story - and perhaps not knowing why he'd begun to in the first place. "I raised my hand to push him out of the way - the hand that had the lighter in it. And..." He lowered his eyes again, speaking so quietly that I almost couldn't hear him. "Well you can guess the rest of it."

I was shaking. The unspeakable horror of his story...

Tears welled in my eyes. When he reached the end and fell silent, I dropped my head and blinked back those tears with little success, and I brushed away the one that escaped. Swallowing hard, I reached across the table - an even worse risk than the first, but my logic was no longer able to talk me out of it - and closed my hand firmly over his right one. The one with the lighter. He didn't move.

"Did you love him?" I whispered, not daring to meet his eyes. That was all I wanted to know.

"I loved both of them," he answered in a low tone devoid of emotion. But emotion was trembling on the very threshold of his self-control, and although he refused to outwardly show it, I could feel his inner turmoil as vividly as if it were my own. If he had been anyone else, I would have broken down and cried for him. But he was Pyro. I couldn't...

"What's your home like?" I whispered desperately, my hand still resting atop his. He was shaking as much as I was.

For awhile he was silent, shoring up his inner walls. "My home is Australia," he answered at last. "It's nice, hot, and the word 'outback' is used way too much..."

My hand didn't leave his. I listened with only half my mind while he told of his home country. What struck me about it was how closely its description matched the harsh desert between Calormene and Narnia, and my own oppressive memories superimposed themselves over Pyro's story. I closed my eyes, and suddenly I wasn't in New York anymore.

Night suddenly fell. I was in Narnia's Lowlands, in a mist-shrouded forest in the dark, chasing a phantom through the moonlit fog. She was nothing but a shadow galloping somewhere ahead of me, and all I could follow was the muffled hoofbeats pounding among the dense black trees. I flinched aside in my bench seat, seeing a tree branch appear out of nowhere and grab at me in my wild flight.

_Mother, wait!_

"Here we go. Very sorry this took so long..."

I awoke from the past with a startled gasp and stared at the Chinese waiter, who was smiling pleasantly down at me while he set a round black tray full of steaming plates on a portable folding stand.

"Orange chicken?" he queried.

"Uh, right here." Shaken, I shifted in my seat and only then realized I was still holding Pyro's hand, and I let mine slide away from his. I pushed my water out of the way and cleared the folded napkin off to one side as the orange chicken was placed before me, then sat quite still, brooding while the waiter set before Pyro a plate of sweet and sour chicken. Pyro never even acknowledged him. The fellow bowed and was gone.

I stared down at the delicious plate of chicken, feeling as if my heart had had a stake driven into it - a stake made of words, but words tipped in poisoned emotion. Emotion could kill: I knew that from first-hand experience. A very clear picture formed in my mind - a picture of Pyro, and suddenly what my mother had gone through when she lost Eolas made a little more sense.

I wished my mother were there. She would know exactly what to tell him. She always knew the right thing to say. I, on the other hand... didn't. So I didn't say anything, instead following Pyro's example and selecting the fork from my trio of silverware. I paused, the tines poised over a chuck of orange chicken doused in shiny glaze, and mentally sent a prayer to Aslan before taking my first bite.

It was delicious, and it cheered me just a little. It was a taste of reality. I needed it, badly. Trauma from the past sometimes becomes too real, and it was nice to have an excuse not to go there - if only for a minute.

Pyro pulled apart his napkin somewhat awkwardly, as if table manners were foreign to him. He left the napkin on the tabletop in a stiff upside-down pyramid instead of settling it on his lap, which I did. Deeply moved as I was by sympathy for Pyro's terrible story and the dark memories of my own tale, I had to keep going. I'd come this far with a purpose; I wouldn't let that golden opportunity slip away.

I picked at a sprig of broccoli, then started to share something deep - something I didn't like talking about. "We lived in a sheltered glade in the Narnian Lowlands, separate from the rest of the centaurs. My father went up north to Lantern Waste to buy some supplies from the grocer up there. Lantern Waste is always dangerous - all the lands to the north of Narnia are, because they border Ettinsmoor. He was ambushed by werewolves then. Some creatures found him, wounded but alive, and informed the centaurs of the Council Ring. They brought him there and sent word to my mother and me."

Pyro took another bite of chicken. I didn't know if he was paying attention or not, but something told me he was. Despite his precarious mood, I prodded the broccoli from one side of my plate to the other and continued.

"A bird told us, and my whole world shattered in a single instant. It's never been the same since that one moment... Odd to think about, really." Finished tormenting the broccoli, I poked idly at the small mound of chicken without piercing any of it. "We made it to the Council Ring barely in time to say goodbye. We buried him, and then... we couldn't go back to the glade, St. John. There were too many memories there," I said quietly, my eyes flicking to his as if seeking for his understanding. His piercing blue gaze was locked on mine, and for an instant my breath hitched. "We left. We had nowhere to go, so we just wandered. If I hadn't been too... grief-stricken myself, I could have better reached out to my mother... but I didn't. I couldn't. I didn't know how."

My fork dropped to the plate with a porcelain clatter, and I gave a deep sigh, breaking eye contact with him. Pyro had caught on by then: He understood what I was getting at, and I had his full attention. But I was having trouble looking at him.

"She just faded away, and there was nothing I could do. I... buried her, alone. No one else knows where her grave is. And then I... I took her name," I admitted, clenching my jaw briefly. "I didn't want to let her die, St. John. Even now, I can't let her die. I have to carry her name with me, don't you see? I tried, but it just wasn't enough... and I couldn't try hard enough. I lost her and it was all my fault."

I glanced at him, put a hand to the side of my neck, then resolutely took up my fork again, my gaze lost in blurry pools of orange chicken. But I didn't attempt to take another bite; my hands were shaking too violently for that.

"Sounds like we almost have similar stories... in a way." Pyro's grave tone was a welcome reprieve from the bitter guilt hemming in on me. The threat of tears was still too near, though, so I nodded mutely and didn't respond. None of this was easy for me. All centaurs hate to be reminded of their imperfections. The fact that I had done so voluntarily did nothing to ease that sense of shame.

I heard the creak of Pyro shifting in his seat. "I don't think it was your fault, Violar."

Pyro understood. In his clumsy, inexperienced way, he decided not to give up on trying to console the inconsolable... on someone else's behalf. Relief and triumph simultaneously flooded through me: It had worked. I had acted on a wild hope, on instinct, and it had worked.

Time to turn the tables on him. My head came up at last. My silver eyes, remarkably clear and intense, riveted on him.

"Neither does anyone else," I replied in a tone deep with conviction. "No one else blames me for her death either. Everyone says it wasn't my fault. And, from a certain point of view, maybe it wasn't." I leaned forward slightly, my gaze still locked with Pyro's. He was still looking at me, expressionless and blank. "But I know the truth, St. John - just like you do. We both know we made mistakes. It's what we do from here on out that really matters. Are you going to let the past hinder you? Am I?" I shrugged in answer to my own question, the one directed to myself, then gazed searchingly at him while I waited for his reply.

He narrowed his eyes briefly. He knew then that he'd fallen neatly into a trap I'd set for him - one designed to help him, but a trap nonetheless.

"I try not to." I thought I caught a trace of annoyance in his tone. I guessed Pyro would have been more irritated if the emotions we'd unearthed together weren't still pressing against his heart.

Whatever Pyro's feelings, he was done with the conversation. He sighed and leaned back in the booth. "Can we please... change the subject? If it's alright with you. If you want to continue with this memory madness, then fine, it's up to you." His tone was suddenly dripping with sarcasm, and he watched me through shaded eyes and a raised eyebrow: A mild challenge. His unspoken message was unmistakable: Our conversation was over. The skeletons were going back in the closet. If I didn't like it, there would be hell to pay.

Despite the threat of Pyro's volatile mood shift, I felt myself melt on the inside. My whole expression gentled with a warm smile. "I would like nothing more," I answered with enthusiasm, glad of his frankness - and eager to release him from that trap. Withdrawing slightly, I picked up my fork again and went to work on my dinner, suddenly regaining my lost appetite.

Maybe tonight wouldn't turn out so badly after all...


	7. The Other Side of the Law

We ate in silence for a short time, but it was a tense silence that both of us longed to break. I was still searching for fresh subject material when Pyro asked me about Narnia.

I gave something of a relieved laugh and embarked on a short description of the country, especially the inhabitants - which seem to interest everyone in New York, because tales of fauns and Talking Animals are so out of the ordinary. Pyro watched me with a curiosity he couldn't hide, leaning back in the booth with one eyebrow slightly quirked as I rambled on about mermaids and castles and centaurs and dragons and extraordinarily large mice. Abruptly he smirked.

"If I saw a three-foot-tall mouse anywhere, well... let's just say that it would be well-done by the time I was through with it." Meaningfully he snapped his lighter shut and put his hands on the table.

As if my wind were suddenly knocked out, I burst into startled laughter. It was a horrible thing to say, but to Pyro, it was a joke, and I was amused by the general concept - as long as I could keep thoughts of my personal mouse friends at bay.

"They're quicker than you think, though I don't doubt you could catch them with your flames. But you wouldn't want to cook them after you realize how cute they are un-cooked, and there's a much higher quality of food to be found in Bergdale." I grinned and opened my mouth to say more - and suddenly stopped. I wasn't sure if I wanted to take him to Narnia yet. He might blow the place up, and even if it were an accident, it wouldn't be an excusable one, and that wasn't a risk I wanted to take.

I do love my country.

"Cute?" He laughed dryly without smiling - though how he managed such a feat was, to me, a mystery. "I doubt it." When I wisely made no response aside from amused chuckling, he went on, "I'd like to see one of those dragons."

"Dragons?" I noted his subtly altered expression: His blue eyes were alight and a little distant, as if he were imagining the sight of a dragon. I couldn't understand why; I'd never met anyone who wanted to meet a real-life, fire-breathing dragon. "There are a few good ones, but most of them are downright nasty. They'll-"

I paused abruptly yet again, my gaze intensifying as I stared at him and recalled what I'd just said: Fire-breathing dragon.

"But you could manipulate their fire... and you wouldn't be hurt," I finished in a tone of awe. "Wow." I sat back in my bench seat, blinking, to process this new revelation.

Pyro snapped out of whatever space he'd been in. "Wow?" He looked at me, confused and curious. "What's so 'wow'?"

I realized I'd been staring at him, trying to wrap my mind around the kinship Pyro would feel with dragons. Fire was an integral part of them both. The comparison was startling and intense, but staring was inexcusable. I drew a deep breath and stirred from my thoughts, glancing away towards one of the empty tables. The jar of soy sauce on that table was in desperate need of refilling, I noticed in a moment of ridiculous observance.

"Oh, 'wow' was... I just suddenly realized you could probably defeat a dragon." I lifted my eyes to his, surprised to find genuine curiosity still there. "Its main weapon is its fire, and you have the ability to manipulate that," I went on. "It could pick you up and carry you off, but a battle would be... I mean, not that I'd want you to engage in one," I added quickly, the ghost of a smile appearing on my lips. For a moment, I'd almost sounded eager to see Pyro and a dragon face off. "But it would be... interesting, from a hypothetical point of view. You'd actually stand a chance of defeating one. That's... incredible to think about."

"Dragons wouldn't stand a chance against me." The monotone response came without hesitation while he poked a fork at his chicken, though his mind was clearly not on his meal. "I don't just control flames, I can make a simple spark into a blast as big as a bomb. The second that dragon got his mouth heated up, I could make the thing explode." A small chuckle escaped him as if that outcome were rather pleasing to contemplate - a tiny person, comparatively, defeating a massive dragon.

I couldn't help chuckling at his description of his power and the way he worded his imaginary battle with the dragon. Swallowing another bite of chicken, I chased it down with a sip of ice water while I tried not to dwell on yet another example of how much Pyro thrived on the feeling of power and control his mutation gave him.

I swallowed carefully before speaking and wiggled my fork at the chicken. "You know, this is absolutely delicious. In Narnia, we don't have food quite like this. It's very good, mind you," I put in defensively, "but this Chinese food would turn the whole kingdom on its ear. Or SOBE would, for that matter." Pyro was still watching me - possibly wondering if I was about to trap him again. He'd underestimated me before and he wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

I ignored him. I meant him no harm, but he would have to see that for himself before he believed it. I took another bite and chewed it thoughtfully, then swallowed again before giving him another genuine smile. "Thank you for bringing me here. I really appreciate this. Especially since... centaurs are always, always hungry," I said with a soft laugh. "We have two stomachs and a very fast metabolism."

To my surprise, that remark brought a chuckle out of Pyro. "I'd make a good centaur then." He was smiling as he followed my example and started on his own plate.

I gave a soft peal of laughter. "Yes, you would make a good centaur, actually! You'd look great in four hooves."

"Oh I'm sure," was his sarcastic response, but he was also laughing - as if to himself.

I chuckled along with him. I couldn't help it, really, because in reality, it was difficult - nigh impossible - to imagine sardonic, withdrawn, destruction-happy Pyro trotting around as a dignified centaur. The two mental images were so completely incongruous, and that's what made them such fun to contemplate.

Pyro wasn't watching me anymore. The wariness in him was gone. To my surprise and delight, Pyro was comfortable with me again. Somewhere along the line, he'd decided to trust me. I'd proved myself clever and calculating, a match for him - if only by sheer force of will. I was dangerous to him in a way that was almost worse than the ability to control fire.

Still, he'd let me in. He was taking a risk. I paused, gazing at him with a quiet smile. I couldn't help feeling... proud of him.

"You don't need to thank me," said Pyro in a low voice, his eyes on his plate. He wasn't eating; he seemed to have lost his ravenous appetite. "But I do need to thank you... for sticking around me this long. I mean... I don't understand why you did though."

His words warmed and hurt me all at the same time. He was lonely... desperately lonely. And he didn't know what to do about it.

"I didn't want to leave you alone," I repeated - just as I had told him earlier. My gaze was gentle, but serious. "I have been alone when I most needed someone there, to talk to, to be with... It still happens, and it will continue to happen. But for reasons I can't fully explain, Aslan put me in your path today, and here we are, eating Chinese food like we've known each other for a hundred years." A hundred years, to a centaur, wasn't a big deal. I chuckled softly, realizing how differently that statement would sound in Pyro's ears. "I was right, though. We have more in common than it first appeared."

A flash of anger sparked in Pyro, startling me out of my comfort zone. What had I said to cause it? Was it the comparison I'd drawn between myself and him? If it was, I could understand that, in a way, because I also hated being compared to anyone: That was evidenced by my swift and predictable reaction to anyone equating me with any race other than pure centaur.

I knew I was treading on dangerous territory, linking my life with his. I'd even expected his reaction. But I'd spoken my thoughts aloud regardless, simply because I felt the intense desire to let him know that, in some small way, he wasn't alone.

Being alone was one of the worst things that could happen to a person. I knew that from personal experience.

Pyro's mood forcibly changed. "Yeah. Well... thanks." When he looked at me, he smiled. "I'm just not used to having anyone around. It's kind of nice. And this is the first time in a long time I'm actually going to pay for a meal," he finished almost grumpily, as if he were complaining.

At his final sentence, I laughed at the humorous aspect of the concept. I decided to say nothing negative about it for the time being. I, too, was enjoying myself immensely, and I was loathe to disrupt our fragile harmony.

"You're welcome." So saying, I pushed back my plate, mostly because I noticed his lack of interest in his own food, and I felt it would be rather rude to continue eating if he didn't join me. I could take the rest back to the mansion in a styrofoam box if I had to.

St. John lifted an eyebrow. "You're done?" he queried, somewhat concerned - as if he worried that he had been the cause of my unfinished meal.

I hadn't realized how observant Pyro was being of my actions. "Oh, I... just thought that if you were finished, I could eat this later. You know, just bring it with me and have it for a midnight snack or something. I'd just rather talk, and eating does slow me down." I smiled at him, and there was a hopeful plea in my eyes. "I don't know how much time we have, or if you have to be somewhere."

My throat tightened out of nervousness. What I'd come to say was over, and now I wasn't entirely sure what Pyro would do. I was going to let him dictate what came next, even if he brushed me off and left me to walk back to the mansion alone - a very likely possibility. It wouldn't be the first time I'd been too easily cast aside in New York. I steeled my nerves; I had to be ready for anything.

Pyro was ancy by then. Restlessly he scanned the restaurant, ignoring my remark. "I think they're getting ready to close. Everyone else is gone," Pyro observed.

I looked around and realized he was right: Only the three businessmen were departing, chuckling as they pulled on jackets and gloves. A busboy was already cleaning off their messy table, and another busboy stood by to pounce on ours as soon as we vacated the booth.

All my attention had been absorbed by Pyro; glancing around at the world now was like waking from a dream. Pyro was more aware of his surroundings, and his blue eyes riveted on a clock.

"Wow, I didn't know it was almost 11p.m. already." Then he added in a low tone, "I have all the time in the world, but these people don't."

I frowned as the bells on the glass door jingled merrily, announcing the departure of the three businessmen into the cold January night. What had Pyro meant by that? I glanced askance at him, contemplating his bored expression. Perhaps it was another of his sarcastic jokes: In that case, he meant that our evening wouldn't end in a hurry.

I was relieved - and absurdly pleased. That was wonderful news, because we still had much to discuss. If I could keep my wits about me, we might be able to make some real progress tonight. I knew Pyro didn't really want to be a villain... not really. It would take time to break down walls, of course, and there would be plenty of consequences to face up to if Pyro ever came to the other side of the law; but we would take this one step at a time.

Anything was possible.

I was still basking in the glow of hope when Pyro interrupted. "I wonder..." He turned to me with an almost wicked grin. "I wonder if we can sneak out of here and not have to pay..."

My heart froze and my blood ran cold. It was not a mere invitation. Tingles of exciting mischief from Pyro found their way into my consciousness, and my sharp gaze sliced back to him. My breath hitched in shock - and fear. Pyro was in a real mood; his blue eyes were sparking. Worse, something about his plan was almost... intoxicating. Irresistible.

I was reminded of my days in the Calormene desert...

I gave my head a sharp shake to clear it. _What am I thinking?!_ Suddenly, like a thunderclap, realization burst over me. Pyro wasn't going to pay for this meal regardless. I didn't know what he would do if I refused, but he was very dangerous, and crossing him right now was NOT wise...

I had to go along with him... and worry about consequences later.

When I gave myself over to the idea, something intense and frightening shocked through me. It was... invigorating. Liberating. It made my pulse race with that familiar charge of adrenaline I'd grown to enjoy overmuch years and years ago.

My silver eyes blazed with delight, and I gave a low, rippling laugh. "Yes, let's," I encouraged him. "I'm right behind you..."

St. John craned his neck as he memorized the location of each remaining person in the restaurant. My response sent a broad grin across his face. "Awesome," he murmured, obviously delighted to have a partner in crime - literally.

We stood up together and I took my time putting on my coat, not paying as much attention to Pyro as I should have and staring wistfully at the unfinished plate of orange chicken instead. I was just realizing that our stunt would cost me my leftovers, and I was still hungry - even though my stomach was tightening in knots. It was a strange thing to be upset about, considering what we were about to do.

Pyro was impatient, and he started for the front of the restaurant. I tied the belt on my trench coat and sighed, reconciling myself to whatever the mansion's fridge happened to house that particular night, and I walked after Pyro - somewhat nervously. This was going to be the first crime I'd ever committed on purpose in New York, and my conscience wasn't pleased with me.

_If I can just concentrate... keep my wits about me... stop my hands from shaking. This will all be over soon..._

Pyro stopped so suddenly that I ran right smack into him and backed off a step, startled. Uncertain and inexplicably worried, especially since my conscience pangs were clouding my Danger Sense, I looked up at him questioningly.

His mind was on other things and he didn't seem to care that I'd run into him. "Changed my mind again," he muttered, heading back for the table. "Just run when I do." So saying, he picked up a piece of his sweet and sour chicken and partially stripped off the fried outer layer, leaving the golden-brown skin dangling from the meat. He cupped his hand around the chicken and moved indifferently past me, making his way to the register once again.

I stuffed my hands in my trench coat pockets and demurely followed, my eyes on the dark green carpet. Despite the consequences of crossing Pyro's wishes, I was beginning to wish I hadn't agreed to this crazy scheme, because what really frightened me was that some part of me was deriving a fierce amount of enjoyment from this, and I wasn't sure why.

But it was too late for me now.

There was no time to dwell on it anymore. Logic was silenced as survival instinct took over, and I drew myself up tall, pausing a short distance from Pyro and the waiter behind the register. I wouldn't look at the man; I knew my eyes were blazing with wicked delight, and there was nothing I could do about it. Besides that, I soothed my wounded conscience as Pyro handed over some money with a show of feigned innocence, I was going to fix everything tomorrow. Whatever happened tonight wouldn't matter.

_As long as no one gets hurt..._

The second that disconcerting thought flashed across my mind, Pyro was yelling about something on the counter: "Oh my God, what IS that?!"

My head snapped up. It was the piece of chicken, which resembled a dead thing. It provided a split-second of distraction. Like lightning Pyro snatched a whole bundle of cash from the register and bolted out the door. Caught by surprise like everyone else, I let out a cry of dismay and dashed blindly after him as the few employees sent up a shout behind me, and I came skidding to a halt as the door was blocked by a furious Chinese waiter wielding a long-handled pushbroom.

"Hoy-yah!" He whirled the pushbroom easily through his hands, threatening me; he obviously knew how to handle the thing, like a weapon. He wasn't about to let me past him. I was caught, and red fury blazed through me. I eyed him dangerously and crouched, lifting my fists to fight.

Suddenly he attacked. I leaned backwards as the broom handle passed in a quick jab at my jaw passed harmlessly over my chest. I seized the broom and wrenched it away from him with surprising centaurian strength, and then it became MY weapon. I whipped it sharply at his feet, intending to trip him, but he jumped easily over it and leaped into a battle stance. I whirled my weapon and stood across from him, breathing hard and glaring.

"Get out of my way," I snarled, furious. He didn't listen. Neither did the other restaurant employees, who were forming a circle around me with various impromptu weapons in hand. There was no way out. Two cooks were armed with frying pans - and one of them gripped a butcher's knife.

My eyes riveted on that. They were out for blood. A low growl rumbled in my throat as all the suppressed survival instincts I'd learned in the desert surfaced with a vengeance.

"Big mistake," I snapped. Time for drastic measures: I pulled back my turtleneck, slammed my hand over my choker and shifted into an eight-foot-tall centaur right before their very eyes - gleaming gold and terrible in my wrath and still holding the broom. My trench coat split open and fanned around my equine shoulders like a kind of cape.

Jaws fell open, and there was a moment of stunned silence - which I was counting on exactly. Pivoting swiftly, I sent a double kick into the stomachs of the two cooks, sending both of them groaning to the floor and taking out my biggest threat. Then, my gray eyes dark and stormy, I faced the original waiter.

"Move," I ordered. I broke into a full gallop, holding the broom close. If he didn't do as I said, he was going to be trampled: The power of a thousand-pound centaur was not to be trifled with. If he had any sense at all, he would get out of my way...

I bore down on him. He held his ground until the last second, then dove aside. I tossed his broom at him and skidded on my hooves, slowing just enough to avoid shattering the glass door, and ducking I made my swift exit into the sudden shock of cold New York air.

My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and I caught a fleeting shadow as it dashed around the street corner. I pursued swiftly, galloping down the sidewalk after the fleeing Pyro, and as I raced around the corner, I found the fleeing figure of a boy running for all he was worth through shadows and shallow lamplight.

Pyro was fast, but four-hooved creatures are always faster: I caught up to him with ease and slowed to a rocking canter. Pyro cast a hunted glance in my direction, and his face changed when he saw who - _what_ - I was. He breathed an obscenity under his breath.

I didn't like his language. "There is nothing 'holy' about... you know. So don't even say it." The full import of what happened back there hadn't fully sunken in yet, but part of it was enough to annoy me beyond reason. "So, that's how you get your kicks, hm?" I muttered darkly, shooting an accusatory glare his direction.

Suddenly Pyro shoved me sideways into a shadowed alley. "Get back..."

I was in mid-stride. I toppled slightly off-balance into the alley and came to an abrupt, bouncing halt and whirled to face him. There I stood, thrashing my white tail, my golden sides heaving from the effort of running after him. White steam rising from underground manholes in the January air added to the mystic aura around us, making us both dark silhouettes against the artificial fog. I fixed a smoldering glare on him; he was staring at me with childishly wide eyes as if he couldn't believe I really existed.

"You're a horse?!" Quickly he corrected himself. "I mean... centaur?"

I was absolutely furious. I was almost too mad to articulate anything intelligent. I wanted to explode at him so badly, to unleash all my anger in one long reckless stream of verbal fury - but the mental image such an idea conjured was similar to unleashing a stream of Pyro's raging fire. What was the difference?

But logic couldn't hold back my fury for long. For a moment, all I could do was stand there with firmly planted hooves and glare down at him from my proud height of eight feet. And then I let him have it.

"Now you care?!" I demanded, panting. "Now you care enough to push me off the sidewalk, St. John? Of all things!" I jabbed a finger in the direction we'd just come. "You left me there in that restaurant to deal with the aftermath of _your_ crime. Didn't you realize the blame would fall on your partner too? You hear that?" I interjected abruptly as the faint, mournful wail of sirens reached my twitching ears. "They're not just looking for you, pal. They're looking for _me_. Next time you perpetrate one of your little skits, maybe take a minute and think about who else you're affecting first, hm?"

I really was angry. I wasn't finished with him, either. "Of course I'm a centaur," I snapped belatedly as his expression went blank in the face of my unbridled fury. "I told you I was. You didn't believe me?" My tail cracked against my hocks like a snowy whip. It was a rhetorical question; I expected no answer and received none. "You think I'd lie to you? Did you ever stop to consider why? What would I have to gain from a thing like that? From the moment I met you, have I done _anything_ to you to deserve your lack of trust? Have I done _anything_ to hurt you? Or have I gone out of my way, on purpose, on your behalf, to be a... a friend to you? Tell me! Tell me, please." My tirade ended on a slightly pleading note as tears gathered in my throat. My fire had nearly run out of fuel, and it left me feeling very hurt and exhausted - especially since he was evidently still in awe of me, I noticed, while I was furious enough to have torched him, had I been the one who possessed fire powers - and not the other way around.

Finally he snapped out of it and rolled his eyes. "Hey, you're out and alive, right? I didn't know you were about to get chopped up back there. You could have screamed or something."

I eyed him darkly. "A centaur," I stated firmly, "_never_ screams."

Pyro ignored that and went on, getting angrier with every word. "I don't trust anyone!" he snapped at me. "This is the exact reason why I DON'T trust anyone. Eventually, they'll get mad at me like you are now and do something to get back at me. That's..." He drew a deep breath and paused, abruptly thoughtful. Then he finished in a low tone, "I'm not saying that's what you're going to do."

He was afraid, I realized with a start. He was afraid of me and all the information he had given me in an impulsive moment. What Pyro didn't know was that I was almost more afraid than he was. What I had done was beginning to hit me: I was an accomplice to robbery, according to New York law. My case for self-defense would have been flimsy, at best; if I were caught, I would likely be landed with a lot of assault charges as well. I felt myself quivering as a coldness crept over me. Inside, I was breaking, and I wanted nothing more than to curl up on a sofa at Xavier's and cry.

But I couldn't go home, not now. Not after what I'd done. The police were after me: Suppose I brought them to Xavier's doorstep? These consequences were mine and mine alone to face. After all the kindness and generosity my adopted family had shown me without reserve, I couldn't repay them with the results of my foolishness.

I couldn't look them in the eye after this, either. I loved each and every one of them. I felt my heart pierced as I saw their disappointed faces, one by one: Professor Xavier, Kurt Wagner, Tessa Niles, Logan Howlett, Alisha Montrose... and Angel.

_Oh no. By the Mane..._ I bit my lip. _What have I done..._

It had all happened so fast. I lost my family, the only family I had, in a single night's work. I was alone. I was so scared... and I refused to let Pyro see it.

Pyro was getting impatient with me, and he didn't like my lack of response. "Stop making such a big deal out of this. You're perfectly fine. They will forget about this and stop looking for you after a day or so. So in the meantime, just don't go outside! Simple! Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out how to get away from them."

My heart leaped in fright when he turned his back on me to walk away. I took a step after him, my hoof ringing sharply against the pavement.

"No, wait," I pleaded, reaching a hand towards him. All the anger was gone from my voice now.

Somewhat reluctantly, Pyro stopped and rolled his head to one side, glancing back at me. His expression was a study in complete boredom.

My hand retreated. Taking a shuddering breath, I willed myself to calm down. I'd never admit it to Pyro, but I was scared. Not of Pyro, or the law: Of myself. That was the real reason I'd lost my temper with him, and I knew it.

What Pyro had done was reprehensible, and he probably deserved to be chewed out for it, but I wasn't going to unleash my aggressions on him just because I was upset with myself. That wasn't fair.

Wind whistled dismally through the alley as we stood, each silent and wary. As my inner fire faded, it left me feeling physically cold, and I tugged the trench coat around my body with some difficulty and loosely tied the belt. It was long, and it bunched up uncomfortably in the back around my withers.

"Look, I... I'm sorry." I swept a hand through my dark hair and sighed. "St. John, I'm not out for vengeance. I don't need to exact payment from anyone. What you told me back there..." I paused, then nodded my head in the general direction of the restaurant. "I'm not going to use that against you, St. John. I give you my word of honor."

There was another long, awkward moment between us, but I could tell Pyro was relieved - and perhaps a little ashamed. I barely heard him murmur, "Thank you."

Well, that was that. Pyro still wanted to leave, I could tell, and I was going to be alone - completely alone; more alone than I had been since I ran away to the Calormene desert. I was a criminal, an outcast... The loss I faced was staggering.

Agitated, I turned a tight circle in the alley, my hooves clopping at each step. I was quivering all over; emotions were bubbling dangerously close to the surface, and out of sheer nervousness I started to talk - and to answer Pyro's remark. "I don't know what I'm going to do now. I'd love to just hide away, but I have to be at work tomorrow morning, and I can't... I can't go back to the mansion, not now. I can't risk staining the reputation of people who've been nothing but kind to me... who've tried to help me."

I stopped with my back to Pyro. My shoulders drooped, and I felt both lost and a little forlorn. "I don't know where to go. I could just run away to Narnia, but I can't do that either... not now." I sighed and didn't elaborate further. I couldn't; my voice was on the verge of shaking, and then Pyro would know how scared I was. And I didn't want him to know. That was my final shred of dignity, and I refused to let go of it.

Behind me, I heard Pyro mutter, almost grudgingly: "I've got room at home."

I was more than a little startled by his offer. I never, ever thought he'd extend that to me - to anyone. For a moment I seriously considered declining it and telling him I'd find some place in the woods to stay instead, because part of me was revolted by the idea of spending any more time with the fellow who was solely responsible for my predicament. I had cooperated, of course, but still: If I hadn't been so determined to follow Pyro, I wouldn't have lost everything I held dear in my life.

But I didn't trust the forest here, and I didn't know what sorts of creatures roamed through the strange trees. I was used to dryads watching over me in Narnia, and there weren't any dryads here in New York. The woods here were remarkably silent, which I found unsettling after being accustomed to noisy chatter of birds and all manner of talking creatures, as well as dryads conversing with each other at any given time of day. For certain, I wouldn't get much sleep out there - and I was exhausted, emotionally and physically. I was desperate for the small comfort of sleep.

Then I could imagine what I'd look like, walking into the fine department store at Bloomingdale's after having spent the night on a pile of leaves. A fitful night, to make things worse. Regardless of what had happened tonight, I was determined to at least make it to Bloomingdale's tomorrow. That was my only way out of this mess: If I could pay back the Chinese restaurant, maybe they would agree to drop charges against me, and I could go crawling back to Xavier's and hope my family would understand.

But being humbled to nothing was infinitely better than being alone...

Swallowing my pride, I hesitantly nodded. "I promise I won't take up much room. And I'll sleep on the floor." I lowered my head and risked a glance at him; he was gazing out at the dark, empty street as if ignoring me. But I knew better. "I'm very grateful, St. John," I said quietly. "And I should be able to return to the mansion tomorrow night. Tomorrow's Friday, and I get my first paycheck, so I can pay back the restaurant and stop borrowing money from Alisha, finally." I took a deep breath as a dose of my natural optimism returned. "Tomorrow should be a pretty good day, actually." The whisking of my white tail was gentle as I swished it from side to side, calming myself with that mundane gesture. Swishing tails always soothe rattled centaurs.

Pyro was less than encouraging. "You don't have to pay them back. If you go back there, they'll make like angry bees and swarm you."

With a sigh, I dropped my head and nodded dismally, but I didn't feel like answering. I didn't want to talk about it anymore. I didn't even want to go there, mentally, for the rest of tonight if I didn't have to. I felt like I was clinging to something - sanity, perhaps, or the remains of my dignity, or my own sense of self-righteousness, which I was in no hurry to relinquish - and revisiting the last few hours to any extent was going to tear me apart, and if I let go of... whatever it was that I was struggling to hold onto, I would be changed permanently.

"I'm cold," I admitted in a small voice. "And I'm very tired. I'm ready to go, if you are. I don't see the sense in staying out here any longer." Especially not with the sound of approaching sirens, which I was keeping close tabs on with my sensitive hearing, in case they got too close.

Pyro shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Then let's go." He spun on his heel and started walking - without me, as usual.

I shapeshifted back into my humanoid form to avoid any more unpleasant encounters that night, and I strode after Pyro, tightening my belt around my now-slim waist. Pyro ignored me; he appeared to be lost in thought. An occasional sharp sigh told me that whatever he was thinking wasn't pleasant. Then again, if Pyro lived this outlaw life on a regular basis, he was probably never content. No one is ever content with an itchy conscience.

As the restless clicking of the lighter began again, I glanced at my companion and studied him as the alley widened into a poorly-maintained street. I wasn't sure WHAT to think about Pyro, in all truth. His offer of shelter had broadsided me. I thought he'd pretty much tell me "tough luck" and go home. The fact that he'd stepped outside what seemed to be his usual boundaries jolted my logic, softened me somewhat, and made me less inclined to be judgmental of his evening's activities.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. In a strange way, part of me wished Pyro hadn't offered to take me in that night. I'd have had an easier time turning him into a villain if he hadn't. Not that he wasn't one now, or that I wanted to see him as the bad guy, but...

Everything was just... so fuzzy. Very little made sense. Being exhausted and frozen right down to the bone wasn't helping me either. Pyro was playing with his lighter, and I automatically picked up my pace to walk beside him, and at least be closer to heat. Even if I couldn't feel it, I'd be able to see it, and the sight of food to a hungry person, while unbearably tantalizing, was better than nothing.

Pyro glanced sideways at me, and for a second I thought I'd made a terrible mistake. I was in real danger.

But instead of blasting fire at me, he did something else: He intensified the heat from the small flame dancing in his palm, and instant warmth engulfed me.

I was too tired to figure out if he'd done that on purpose - for my benefit - or not. Part of me cared, but I was too worn out to have an opinion one way or the other. I opened my mouth to thank him regardless...

...And was stopped by the wave of pure anger that hit me. It woke me up. Blinking in surprise, as if he'd just dumped a bucket of cold water over me, I stared at Pyro with cautious curiosity. What had made him angry this time? There was no telling.

"If I had my swords with me, I'd challenge you to a mock duel," I remarked offhandedly, mostly to break the silence and also to offer an outlet for his pent-up aggressions. In truth, it'd help me out as well. "But if you have two brooms at your place, that'd work too. I'm tired, but I could stand a good fight before we go to bed."

For a moment, Pyro looked at me, utterly confused. Apparently he was having as much trouble puzzling me out as I was him. Then he hesitantly agreed, and I offered him a little smile. But he was done being overly generous; he snapped his lighter shut and the warmth was gone.

We walked down the abandoned streets of New York without speaking. But my thoughts had shifted from myself to my companion - and his varied predicaments.

What Pyro did was wrong. Still, I understood why he was like this - and he could change. Everyone could change, if they fought hard enough - if they truly wanted to change. Whether or not Pyro would change remained to be seen. At least not all hope was lost...

Tonight, at least, neither of us would be alone.


	8. When Worlds Collide

As I crossed the street, I shied at the headlights coming straight at me - a remarkably horse-like thing to do, I realized in mild embarrassment, though I was in human form. At least Pyro hadn't noticed. I stopped in the middle of the midnight street and waited for the cars to pass, and St. John went on ahead, taking the cracked cement porch steps two at a time. He probably hadn't noticed, or didn't care, that I wasn't right there with him. He kicked in the door and disappeared into the dark interior. Somewhere inside, a yellow light flicked on.

As soon as there was a hole in traffic, I hurried after him, a little startled by his semi-violent method of entry. I hesitated on the front porch and glanced over my shoulder out of habit - not just to see if anyone was following me, but because I preferred the outdoors to being trapped indoors. Did I really know what I was doing, following this Pyro fellow around? He was so dangerous...

And this... house, if you wanted to call it that, wasn't the most appealing thing in the world. Still, Pyro's kindness - or maybe guilt, or _something_ - I could neither ignore nor proudly refuse, so I rather tentatively stepped through the door after him and found myself in his living room.

Immediately I wrinkled my nose at the musty smell: Centaurs are hypersensitive to air quality, or lack thereof. I hadn't been foolish enough to mistake Pyro for a housekeeper, but still: This was ridiculous. There were cobwebs in the corners and dust blankets on the furniture - along with a variety of clothes that no creature in their right minds would dare touch, let alone _wear_. Miscellaneous papers and unopened envelopes - presumably junk mail - were scattered everywhere. A Daddy Longlegs, perched on his thickly-webbed lair, was busily taking inventory of his day's catch of various bugs.

It was practically uninhabitable. A thief who entered through the window might've easily arrived at the conclusion that the place was abandoned, or that someone had robbed and ransacked to their heart's content before his arrival; and if the thief were wise, he'd leave without poking around. If there had been valuables here once, they were destroyed by time and dust and lack of care. Even as I took all this in with an involuntary expression of distaste, I noted the lack of scorch marks anywhere: A pleasant surprise. It was the one bright spot in the midst of total disaster.

I took another step or two inside and shut the door, but I made no move to take off my coat. I was still cold - more from my predicament than January temperatures.

"Well, we made it," I said neutrally. I didn't want to remark on his house too much. It was a stark contrast to the tidy mansion, but this could possibly have been the standard for New York houses, and I wouldn't have known. This was the first city house I'd ever been in. And it really wasn't _that_ bad, compared to... compared to what?

"So... do you have a broom? Or something with a long handle? In Narnia, we always practiced with tree branches, so if you have a tree nearby or something..." I shrugged and, again, let him take the lead.

"I burnt down all the trees I had, so... none of them."

I burst into startled laughter. The way he said it made it seem like some kind of joke, though he hadn't betrayed anything but perfect seriousness.

Ignoring my reaction, Pyro moved into the kitchen and opened the linen closet. "Um. One broom and a mop. Will that work?"

"Yes, the mop will-" My sentence was cut off when Pyro made up his mind and roughly tossed me the mop. I caught it and tested its weight in my hand. It was heavy and not well-balanced: The dry mass of gray strings on one end was a definite disadvantage, and it didn't look as if it'd been used in a long time. I gave it a couple of practice hefts, then slowly, almost thoughtfully, whirled it from one hand to the other.

"What first, mate?" The hint of an Australian accent bled through in his excitement.

"Well..." I chuckled at his use of words, then leaned the mop against the wall. "Excuse me while I rearrange your living room." While Pyro watched me in fascination - I was sure I heard him mutter "Women" under his breath - I stripped off my coat and hung it on the coat rack, rolled up my black sleeves, and pushed the clothes-covered couch firmly against the wall. Then I stood up and sneezed.

"Oh, goodness." The dust was enough to kill a centaur used to fresh air and open spaces, but never mind that. I pushed a limp old La-Z-Boy into the corner and stacked some papers on it, along with loose stuffing spilled from a rip in the chair arm. Then I circled the empty space. Calling it "clean" was a stretch, but at least there was room to move about freely.

"Alright." I plucked the mop from the wall, pulled out one of its strings, and tied the whole mass firmly against the main pole so it wouldn't interfere with my moves. Pyro moved into the living room, resigned to what he probably considered my eccentricities, but I wasn't ready yet. I picked a second string from the mop and used it to tie back my thick mane of unruly hair, leaning the mop against my shoulder while I worked.

"These are like staffs, not swords, which is more complicated... but easier, from a different perspective," I began as I finished my preparations. "Think of it as an extension of your arm. Just watch me and do as I do." Retrieving my mop, I whirled it in a slow figure-eight, gradually increasing speed. "Try this. Then, when you're ready, jab at me, but _slow_. I'll defend myself. Watch how I do it, and copy me when I attack you, in slow motion at first. Then we'll engage in a very basic spar."

Pyro was clearly uncomfortable and out of his element, and he had a great dislike for taking instructions from anyone. I pretended not to notice, and he cooperated in the interest of fun, awkwardly spinning his broom in a strange pattern that was supposed to resemble a figure-eight. I encouraged him and wasn't picky about minor details, and slowly his self-consciousness evaporated.

"Now attack me," I said after a moment. "But slowly."

"You mean go now?" I smiled and nodded, but he frowned at his own question, picked up his broom, and jabbed it at me - a controlled jab, though his hands were clenched tightly around the broom handle as if he wanted nothing more than to attack me with all his might. "Like that?"

I easily blocked his thrust and parried it away. "Yes, like that. Do it again. A little quicker this time."

He chuckled drily, fighting to concentrate. His attack came with greater speed than even I anticipated. I parried and spun away, but found my boot heels getting caught in the unvacuumed carpet. Making a face, I held up my hand. "One second."

I sat down on the _very edge_ of the La-Z-Boy and pulled off my black velvet high-heeled boots, setting them neatly in the corner. It was a great excuse to remove myself from the heat of the moment; my heartbeat pounded at double its normal pace. I was feeling a little shaky from all the stress of the evening, and it was tough to tell whether Pyro was out to kill me or not. Meanwhile Pyro smothered a huge yawn in his elbow. Apparently he was worn out as well.

Standing up again in my black stocking feet, I picked up my mop and nodded to him, whirling the mop into a quick figure-eight. Instantly he was ready for me. I spun on the balls of my feet and reentered fighting proximity to Pyro, and with a little smile I jabbed forward - at medium speed. He easily defended himself, then stopped.

"So what, are we going to do this back and forth?"

I spun away, grinning. "Mm-hm. Just... faster. And without pauses in between." I whirled my staff, holding it stiffly against the back of my arm, and I bowed to him. The gesture was not returned by my uncertain opponent. "Ready?"

He gave a nod that was more shrug than affirmation. I waited just a beat before bringing my staff forward and spinning it between my hands with blinding swiftness - much faster than I had previously - and pulling it back a second time. I wanted him to have some idea of what was coming.

"Defend yourself!" I warned. Then I brought the mop forward and jabbed at him, initiating the first attack. Pyro looked shocked as our weapons clashed, and I grinned at him through a gratifyingly swift volley of blows.

Pyro seemed to be getting the hang of it. It was a challenge, but he was clearly enjoying it. "Remind me never to swordfight with you," he said breathlessly.

My concentration slipped just enough. The offset weight of my mop worked against me, and I slightly misjudged my next block. The broom handle soundly whacked my thumb.

"Ow!" Still laughing, but grimacing at the same time, I crashed my staff against his without presenting any real threat: It was more of a mock-blow than anything else. "No, indeed, swordfighting with you sounds a dreadful idea; I could lose a lot of fingers that way!" With that, I spun my body around, my black skirt flaring as I took a sideways swipe at his midsection.

He stepped back and neatly blocked my attack. "I doubt I can hurt you. I still have no idea what I'm doing."

I raised my eyebrows, wondering at that remark, but his laughter was nice to hear. He was actually having a good time.

"I'm not invincible!" I said, laughing. "I wish." As soon as he pushed my weapon aside, instinct told me where he would strike next. I whipped the mop around and blocked the jab to my stomach - just in the nick of time.

"Good thing," I declared, shoving his broom away. "If you did have an idea, you'd be quite deadly." I turned the mop upwards, maintaining firm contact against the broom, so that Pyro's weapon - and arms - went high; then suddenly I twisted the mop away, ducked low, and aimed a sweep at his feet.

And landed a sound blow to his ankle.

A fierce expletive escaped Pyro, and he stumbled backwards, putting out a hand as if asking for a truce. "Okay okay okay." He set his broom down and leaned against it, winded and tired. "I was enjoying this and everything, but it's too late to think." He straightened and met my gaze as I rocked backwards and sat on the carpet, smiling up at him. "Can we do this tomorrow?" He looked at me hopefully, and then his blue eyes darkened with doubt. "If you want to that is..."

My response was immediate and enthusiastic. "I'd love to!" I wrapped my arms around my knees and sat back. Pyro set his broom against the wall and ignored it when it fell over with a crash. I wasn't concerned about it either, which wasn't like me. Normally loud noises set my nerves on edge, since I have sensitive hearing and hair-trigger instincts. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I'd heard so many loud noises that day already that one more didn't bother me.

A moment later Pyro was sitting across from me, recovering from our short battle. I smiled at him.

"By the mane, St. John, that was _fun_."

"It was," he agreed.

My heart warmed. "Thank you very much. A few days of this, and..." I shook my head. "You picked it up as fast as I thought you would, even though it _is_ late and... we're exhausted. My mind also feels like it's slogging through a pool of molasses." Suddenly I stifled a yawn in my elbow. "Goodness, I really am done for." I climbed to my feet and looked around the room. "Mind if I sleep on the couch? If you don't have a spare pillow or blanket, that's alright. I have my coat."

"I've got pillows and a blanket," Pyro answered as he also rose and headed for the linen closet.

Grateful for the opportunity to pass out shortly, I hurried to the couch and cleared articles of clothing from it. Suddenly a pillow smacked me in the back, and I whirled in surprise. One look at Pyro's face told me that he hadn't done it on purpose.

"There," he said shortly. "The couch doesn't have a pull-out bed, but it's big enough." Clueless about what a pull-out bed was, I ignored that comment: It was a habit of mine to disregard anything in this world that didn't make sense, as long as it wasn't a necessity.

And I was a little distracted. Ideas glittered behind my gray eyes, and I bit back a smile. Bending down, I slowly picked up the pillow, gazing steadily at Pyro as he tossed a blanket in the general direction of the couch. I needed to know what kind of mood he was in, if I hoped to pull off anything without risking my life...

He met my eyes for a long moment before he spoke. "I actually have food for once, so if you get hungry just raid the fridge. I don't care. My room's upstairs on the left, if you need anything else."

Such generosity meant more than Pyro could have known to a centaur who was always, always hungry. I paused and nodded, my seriousness abruptly returning.

Pyro rubbed the back of his neck wearily and turned away, looking at the clock on the wall. It was nearly midnight. Pyro's body language conveyed as much dismay as I felt about the late hour. Then a wave of nostalgia washed over me as the events of the past few hours intruded on my thoughts. It had been terrible and tragic and difficult... but it could have turned out much worse.

Pyro's low, soft voice interrupted my muses. "Thank you," he said quietly. Slowly he turned and looked at me, and he gave a slight smile.

There was a world of emotion hidden behind that slight smile. Abruptly I decided that just seeing Pyro smile like that was worth everything. My heart warmed, and I smiled back at him.

"You're welcome," I replied just as softly, hugging the pillow close. "And thank you too, St. John." For so many things: For letting me into his life. For allowing me to stay in his home and sleep on his couch. For opening his heart and his refrigerator to me. For providing me with all the danger I sought and more. For giving me a chance to be his friend. For... everything.

His little smile remained. "You don't need to thank me." I nodded and slowly turned towards the couch, as if to finish straightening it, and from the corner of my eye I saw Pyro face the staircase. "Well, goodn-"

Suddenly I whirled and threw the pillow at him, laughing.

Pyro whipped around and glared at me as he bent down and retrieved the pillow. Butterflies streaked through my stomach, and I fell helpless victim to fits of laughter as he slowly advanced, playfully menacing me with his bad-boy attitude.

"What'd you do that for?" he demanded, lightly smacking me with his plush weapon. I sank onto the couch, too incapacitated with laughter to stop him as he went on with his supposedly harsh diatribe. "I give you a place to stay and you try to beat me?" His blue eyes fell on the pillow. "With my OWN pillow?!" A chuckle escaped him at the irony of it all, and the pillow connected gently with my shoulder again. "I can't believe you..."

"Alright alright!" I cried, holding up my hands in between gales of laughter, "I agree it was despicable of me, but I'll agree to a cease-fire if you give me your word NEVER to tell the Council of my indiscretions!" I caught the other end of the pillow and grinned at him across it, brimming with mirth.

His boyish smile appeared like the midnight sun. "Hmm... I have to think about that." He looked away as if pondering, but I knew he'd already made up his mind. Another wild laugh bubbled inside of me as I watched him deliberately bait me. Sure enough, he returned his gaze to mine a second later. "Can't promise you that."

I took the bait. "Then prepare to face the consequences!" I shouted, leaping up and whirling the pillow, creaming him once with more playfulness than skill.

"AHH!" he yelled, throwing up his arms to shield himself from the pillow. "That's not fair! I have no way to defend myself." I took a step backwards, giggling, and he lowered his arms a little to look at me. "I'm like a helpless puppy right now."

That did it. I pulled the pillow close and tucked my face against it in a hopeless attempt to stifle my laughter. When I looked up at him again, I was grinning like mad, and my cheeks were rosy with mild embarrassment. He WAS right.

"I can't beat up on a helpless puppy," I told him, lowering my face into the pillow again to smother another round of giggles. The mental picture of Pyro as a helpless puppy was... priceless. Biting my lip and grinning, I fixed laughing gray eyes on him. "You could... get another pillow," I suggested, choking, "and... and then you'd be a... a helpless puppy, armed with a pillow!" I broke off and buried my face in the pillow, laughing.

Pyro's laughter joined mine. "I'll be right back," he said, raising his eyebrows and backing away. Then he turned and ran up the stairs.

I burst into excited laughter. I couldn't believe this! Whirling, I ran back to the couch and cleared off the last of the clothing, piling it all on the La-Z-Boy and promising myself I would fold it all properly in the morning, and I finished spreading the blanket over the couch so I could crawl in and crash when this escapade was over - though my exhaustion had, miraculously, evaporated.

Suddenly there was a tremendous _THUD_ on the floor behind me. I whirled, laughing, to find a grinning Pyro with a pillow of his own. He gripped both ends of the pillow and pushed them together, then pulled them out again, as if he were loading a gun.

"I'm armed and ready," he declared. "Make your move."

"Yikes, what happened to the helpless puppy!?" I wanted to know. His pantomime was incredibly amusing, and I gave another rippling peal of laughter.

"Helpless puppy is now a rabid dog," was his smug answer.

Gripping my own pillow, grinning dangerously and watching him through shining eyes, I circled him with faux menace. Suddenly I charged him with a merry holler and brought the pillow with a FLOOF towards his shoulder.

"I'm not scared!" I answered his challenge with laughing fierceness.

"You should be," responded Pyro, stumbling backwards and swinging his pillow against my ribs.

I gave in to more delighted laughter, giddy beyond all reason. Somewhere deep in my mind, I knew he was right: I _ought_ to be scared. This was Pyro, who'd wreaked devastation and havoc on civilization earlier that day, and who had committed countless crimes on many days long before this; but right then, none of it mattered. Tonight, Pyro was a "helpless puppy" with a pillow, and... and he was adorable.

Our banter went on as we battled away with pillows, squealing and laughing like a couple of kids and chasing each other all over the tiny living room. Pyro wasn't defending himself on purpose, and when I realized it, I turned into marshmallow. That, combined with Pyro's pillow hit - which made me stumble sideways and laugh all the harder - made all my limbs turn to jelly and I had no idea _why_.

"You won't win this!" Pyro announced cockily, letting his pillow fall on me with surprising gentleness.

I giggled. _He's probably right,_ I thought, mustering strength and hauling my pillow over one shoulder, _but that doesn't mean I'm going to roll over and LET him win!_

I brought the pillow down on his arm with a sound POFF! "You underestimate your enemy: This is going to be a greater challenge than you think!" I laughed at my own false bravado. I wasn't used to issuing dares I couldn't back up, but oh. This was FUN.

"I'm always up for a challenge!" he returned evenly, grinning as he hit me lightly with the pillow - not because I had worn him out, I was certain, and the knowledge warmed my giddy heart.

"I'm _still_ not scared! Not even a little!" Laughing, I hefted my pillow over my shoulder and prepared to deal him a return blow...

Pyro took a step backwards and stumbled as his boots caught in the carpet. "Wait," he said, setting down his pillow. He sat on the couch and untied the network of laces over his combat boots, which took a long time. I giggled delightedly and pulled my pillow close.

"Aha! You were nerrrr-vous," I teased, hiding slightly behind the pillow and peering at him over the edge with twinkling gray eyes. "You didn't wanna get hit by my pillllll-ow!"

"I'm never nerrrr-vous," he mocked.

Laughing, I gazed down at those incredible boots laced up like, well, tanks. "Jeez, look at those things! Are they like, armor for your feet? So you can protect your toes from stray rocks on the sidewalk?"

He smiled at my outrageous comment. "Yep." He yanked off his boots. "Those pebbles hurt." He stood up; the lower sections of his pants were wrinkled horribly from confinement inside those boots. Pyro was not a tidy fellow, I realized, muffling laughter in my pillow.

Standing, Pyro retrieved his weapon. "Now we may continue," he said in a low tone.

Gleeful at the prospect of battling Pyro again, I was laughing, but I abruptly cut myself off and sniffed suspiciously at the air. Something smelled positively _awful_. Pyro stood by and watched me, a little puzzled. I narrowed my eyes, still sniffing, trying to trace this most unsavory odor, and then my gaze fell on the empty boots.

"Aslan have mercy," I breathed, half in awe. I'd discovered the source of the noxious odor, but I'd never _dreamed_ boots could stink like that.

Pyro was still watching me.

Suddenly I bit back a smile and dropped my pillow, lifting a dramatic hand to my forehead and swaying woozily. "Aaah, the secret weapon!" I cried out. "I am vanquished!" I began to collapse...

Before I hit the floor, there was a gasp from Pyro. He rushed across the living room and slid to his knees. Before I could react, he caught me in his arms, and the impact jolted my eyes open. My startled gaze met his, and the world stopped.


	9. A Wrinkle in Time

For a split-second, Pyro looked as shocked as I felt. He was the first to recover.

"Yes! The secret weapon," he declared with a smile, one arm around my back and the other resting gently on my shoulder.

I laughed, somewhat incredulously. "My hero!" I declared. Then, impulsively, I gave him a hug, wrapping one arm around Pyro's back and tucking my head against his shoulder in a gesture of trust that surprised even me. "You saved me from that awful, filthy carpet! Ooh," I whimpered, playing the part of a delicate, oversensitive, henwit female, "it's positively _disgusting_. Eww!"

My real fear was of hugging Pyro, and how he might react to an embrace. That fear evaporated when he pulled me close in response, and he kept me in his arms - and I was remarkably comfortable, even though my body was still arrested at a perpendicular angle.

That gave way to a completely different kind of fear. I pushed it away and clung stubbornly to Pyro. For tonight, at least, the villain was playing the role of a hero. And I felt somewhat antagonistic in a playful way. Though he was trying desperately not to show it, Pyro was nervous and awkward, afraid that I would bolt at any moment. I wanted to tease that fear out of him.

"Heehee, I just insulted your carpet." I broke up in giggles, quivering with delight.

"I know." He gave me a blank stare, which gave way to a smile. He seemed to find my immature behavior amusing. Then he looked away, studying his floor thoughtfully. "That carpet has destroyed all the vacuums that ever crossed it," he said wistfully, as if he actually felt sorry for the vacuums who had given their lives to keep his carpet passably dirt-free.

I shook my head and clicked my tongue, shooting an accusatory glance at the culprit. "Why, carpet," I addressed it, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself." Then I grinned at St. John, equally caught up in this bizarre tale of killer carpets and stinking boots and fluffy pillows. "It's going to cower and whimper in the corner now. You know, I bet it's a vacuum-eater. There's nothing worse than having a cannibal carpet. It might even eat centaurs." I gave a false shudder and shifted closer to him, glancing down at the floor in mock fear.

He laughed again - a delightfully boyish laugh - and looked down at the carpet. "Oh it will cower in the corner now, and if it works up the courage to come out of the corner, I'll make sure it goes right back into it." He glared at the floor, then raised his eyebrows at me. "It also eats mutants. Preferably mutants with fire powers. But I'll make sure it doesn't get you. Thing tried to attack me more than once."

"I _saw_ it try to eat you!" I declared incredulously. "Right before you took your boots off. It made an attempt on my life too, and that's why _my_ boots are sitting off in the corner. I don't think it likes the taste of socks, so maybe socks are cannibal carpet-repellent. What do you think?" I turned gray eyes full of amusement up to his, very interested to hear his opinion on the matter.

"I think MY socks are carpet-repellent," was his witty comeback, sending me into another fit of laughter. "I think my socks are... everything-repellent." He was quite serious. But he was chuckling - more at my helpless laughter than his own joke.

Once I could see past tears of mirth at the socks in question, I giggled, but I made no direct reply. My sharp centaurian sense of smell agreed wholeheartedly with his observation, but I wouldn't dare say so. I'd already had plenty of fun with his boots.

"Where's the carpet police when you need them?" I choked out.

"Sleeping on the job." Pyro chuckled.

Then I paused, giving this some serious thought. "WHAT is the carpet police?" I wondered aloud, backtracking. "Maybe it's the broom and the mop, but we wore them out, so they've gone off-duty and are eating donuts in the kitchen." Giggling, I looked up at him. "That's what police do, right?"

"I think the carpet police might be a monster vacuum and a mop... and a broom," he responded thoughtfully, a grin playing about his lips. "A carpet SWAT team."

Having no idea what a "SWAT" team was, other than the obvious, I went rigid with mirth and laughed until I couldn't breathe. "Brooms and mops are definitely for swatting carpets!" I half-squealed, wiping away tears, "but I've never seen _anyone_ try to swat _anything_ with a vacuum!"

Pyro was lost in glorious laughter along with me. And he was the one who'd come up with the joke.

When I couldn't speak for laughing, he quirked an eyebrow and grinned mischievously. "The fear, it paralyzes you, no?"

Suddenly I stopped laughing. My eyes widened with mingled mirth and indignation, and I drew my head from his shoulder to look at him. "I do beg your pardon!" I declared with faux astonishment, unable to hide my smile. "I fear nothing! It is only... it is only, um..." I broke off, pursing my lips and pretending to search for a suitable alternative, even though I had the whole skit already formed in my mind. Suddenly I gave a huge, exaggerated yawn, stifling it with my free hand as an afterthought. I ended it too early on purpose and snapped my jaw shut. "It is merely exhaustion!" I finished, my gray eyes shifting over to meet his, positively glittering with mischief and barely-repressed laughter. "I'm not afraid of your stinking boots!"

His voice grew dark and creepy. "The boots. You must watch out for them," he warned, glancing at them - and then back at me.

I smiled. "Beware the boots," I told him in an equally spooky tone, unable to stifle another laugh.

"Do not underestimate them. They're killers." He shot a glare at the boots in question, but it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

My smile grew warm and grateful. I gazed back at him with genuine veneration. "Killers?" I repeated, and for once my light words didn't match my voice. "Then don't let them get me," came my soft plea, and I wrapped him in another hug, tucking my head against his shoulder and closing my eyes.

He smiled and laughed a little, but I could tell that my gesture of trust touched his heart. "I won't let them get you, Sheila," he said in a voice that made me feel warm and secure. Oddly enough, I believed him wholeheartedly, as if those boots were a real enemy and Pyro were truly my protector. With my eyes still closed, I felt his hand slide under my knees and, with infinite gentleness, he lifted my light body into his arms. Again I was startled, and I watched Pyro from beneath a dark fringe of lowered eyelashes. It was only the second time in my adult life that I had been picked up by anyone; Angel had been the first.

Pyro set me quickly - too quickly - on the couch, and out of habit I curled up sideways against the back of it, tucking my legs beneath me. There was a wariness in Pyro's blue eyes as he sat a respectful distance from me; he was clearly wondering if he'd been too bold.

"You are safe, m'lady! From the dreaded carpet." He smiled again and took a small bow, then gazed searchingly at me as his smile faded, as if he was afraid I would push him away and leave him in the cold. Yet he took the risk anyway... for me.

Warmth again flooded through me, and it made me feel... exquisitely sleepy, and comfortable, and safe. His gentleness melted me, and I impulsively took his hand to hold between both of mine. Immediately his free hand folded protectively over mine.

I stopped moving. A sigh escaped me, followed by a sleepy yawn, and my eyelids lowered to half-mast. I could scarcely believe everything that had taken place in the past few hours, ranging from the lowest of lows to shared secrets, and now... this. Pyro was actually sitting next to me, promising to defend me against a cannibal carpet, and treating me as gently as he would... what, his lighter? That Zippo had to be his most prized possession.

Pulling my knees closer to my stomach to preserve warmth, as per centaurian instincts, I threaded my fingers through his and drew the whole stack of hands close to my chin. It was completely illogical... but at the same time, it wasn't. It was entirely natural. I looked up at him with soft gray eyes and smiled.

"I appreciate it, very much," I said quietly, and I meant it. "I will sleep in peace, then, and not fear cannibal carpets coming to swallow me whole, couch and all. They do that, you know. But..." I paused, as if seriously considering a matter of utmost importance, and Pyro looked as if he were hanging on every word. "I can't let it get to you, either. I suggest," I said, beginning to smile mischievously at him again, "that you _threaten_ the cannibal carpet with your killer boots. Tell it that if it DARES leave that corner, the killer boots will come after it, and nothing but nothing can stop killer boots." Giggling, I buried half of my face against the couch blanket.

"Oh I should?" Pyro glared at the floor. His body language reflected his tough-guy attitude. "Ay you! Carpet!" He nodded his head at me. "See this pretty Sheila right here?" I giggled in embarrassed amusement. "You try to get her, and those boots over there?" He nodded at the boots in turn. "They'll attack you. They'll go rabid on you, and they don't stop until they get what they want. Those boots are out for blood. And those killer boots will be watching you tonight, mate." He grinned in satisfaction and gazed at me, speaking in a softer tone. "There, it won't bother you now." He smiled, turning his gaze to my eyes.

With the carpet thoroughly threatened into submission, I extracted my face from the blanket, biting my lip and smiling. I found Pyro gazing directly into my eyes, and the jests that rose to mind melted away. My own smile faded to an expression of serene tenderness that almost matched his.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"No need to thank me," he said in a low, caressing tone that made my stomach flip.

I knew it then. I sobered as I watched him willingly wind his fingers through mine, then I looked into his blue eyes and found him searching mine with a questioning intensity that locked my gaze to his.

An hour ago, that Pyro could be this vulnerable with anyone was... unthinkable. And I... I had my own heartache to deal with; that was part of the reason I'd pursued danger so recklessly and refused to give up on Pyro. But at that moment, there was something else... Something else that couldn't be described.

It was as if we'd fallen into a wrinkle in time.

There was a strange magic at work between us. My soul quieted, as if a blanket had been cast over it, and it warmed me from the inside out. It was as if Pyro had transferred some of his fire to me, and it seared and soothed my heart by turns.

I smiled while I held his gaze, drawing the pile of hands against my cheek as a substitute for my missing pillow, which was somewhere on the floor - quite forgotten by now.

I shouldn't trust him, and I knew I shouldn't trust him, but I did. Tonight, nothing else seemed to matter. It was as if the laws set by the world around us, and the lines drawn by humans and mutants, and the boundaries between good and evil blurred away. Tonight, everything was alright. Tonight, I could trust Pyro.

Maybe, maybe it was alright to take chances. Aslan knew I wanted to - that I was almost _desperate_ to.

Gently working one of my hands free, I brought my hand almost to his cheek. An instant before it reached its destination, my fingers curled away of their own accord, like a startled anemone in one final moment of indecision. There was no turning back after this. Then I opened my hand again and set my palm lightly against his warm jaw. All the while, my eyes held his blue ones, betraying not the slightest fear.

"No one ever needs to be thanked," I replied, so softly that it was almost a whisper. I didn't want to speak too loudly and shatter the spell around us. "It is a gift." I gave him another tender smile. "Thank you, St. John."

Pyro shuddered slightly. He looked as lost in me as I felt in him: Uncertain, nervous, cautious... yet inexorably drawn close. His only response was a little smile, and he withdrew one of his hands to cover mine as it rested shakily on his jaw. A similar shudder ran through me as his fingers curled over mine, and I couldn't breathe anymore. He moved slightly closer to me, and then his eyes widened as he shied away at the last moment. He was as frightened as I was.

"St. John," I whispered, trembling. I wanted to say more than that, but I couldn't. My throat had gone dry. My lips moved, but nothing came out. I was taking a terrible risk, and I knew it. I knew, good and well, what kind of person Pyro was. I knew he was going to hurt me. Still...

"St. John," I whispered again. Very slightly, I smiled at him.

So many unspoken words lingered in his blue eyes, and when verbal communication failed, time paused. So did my heart. It was as if, in an instant, I saw the future - or what might have been - in a wild stream of confused images, all ending in flames and tragedy.

But maybe, maybe there was still a way... and that wild hope, that one slim possibility, is what I chose to cling to as his face drew nearer to mine, so close that we were breathing for each other. Nameless fears and equally nameless hopes were written in his blue eyes. My heart warned me of danger... but danger, that was what I thrived on. That, and somewhere between the end of our pillow fight and this moment, my questions had come to an end, and my mind was made up.

I closed my eyes as his lips gently touched mine. Heat ripped through me, threatening to tear me apart. A tear dropped from my eye as I returned the kiss as tenderly as it was given. My hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck, and I gently pulled myself up from the couch and slid into his arms while we kissed. That was where I wanted to be: Closer to him. With infinite gentleness, he carefully embraced me in return - one hand on the nape of my neck and the other on the small of my back. His sweetness was mingled with fear and a sudden jolt of anger that ran through him and directly through me, and with it came the subtly terrifying knowledge that I was placing myself entirely at his mercy.

I broke the kiss for only a moment, gazing up at him with tears in my eyes. There were more sprinkled on my cheeks. He gazed wonderingly at my face, trying to read into my expression... into my heart. Even I didn't know what he would find there. I only knew that I felt so much - fear, pain, warmth, desperation, and more that I could not comprehend. Perhaps more that I did not _want_ to comprehend. I brushed the back of my shaking fingers over his cheek.

"St. John," I whispered softly. I was trembling all over, grappling with my conflicting feelings. Then, just as softly, I looked into his blue eyes and murmured, "I'm not afraid."

It was more a declaration than truth, but it _felt_ true. I wanted it to be true, so badly. Wrapping my arms around his neck again, I caught his lips in another soft kiss, and my streaming tears washed away the deepest, most painful secret I carried in my broken heart. And with it, I felt, went a part of me.

After awhile, it was St. John who slowly pulled away. I remained cradled in his arms with my eyes closed, not trying to understand anything anymore.

"Violar," he whispered, uncertain. I opened my eyes and looked up at him through a teary blur and found him gazing intently at me, searching my face for answers. "What's wrong?" he asked hesitantly, brushing his thumb tenderly across my cheek.

I sat up in his lap, then lowered my eyes and sniffed, just once. I hardly knew how to answer him. How could I explain? This was a moment the poets had been trying to capture since the dawn of time - a moment shadowed only by the past hurts lingering in my heart and the vague fears of the future. What did the past and future matter, when there was such perfection in the present?

_Everything_, my practical logic warned. My head was still arguing with me, but I forcibly silenced it and sent it in the corner to pout with the cannibal carpet.

Seeking a distraction, my fingers shifted up to the back of his head and caught in his ash-blonde hair. It was delightfully soft, and a little rough in texture, and I twined and twirled the short locks through my fingers as I thought of what to say - of how to piece my fragmented thoughts into words.

"Nothing, really. I'm just..." I broke off and turned my face into the hand that had come to take my tears away, and I kissed and nuzzled his palm with fierce affection. Then I gave him my cheek again, and my silver eyes were calmer, and clearer, when they rose to meet his. "I'm overwhelmed," I whispered. And it was entirely true. "St. John," I added softly, bringing one hand around to caress his cheek while my eyes wandered over his features to memorize every one of them, finally coming to rest in his blue eyes again, "you... you're wonderful."

"So are you, Violar..." As if he would never look away, Pyro was gazing into my eyes with heartwarming intensity. There were thoughts and feelings too poignant for words in his blue eyes, in his expression - even in the gentle strength of his arms around me. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then love is worth a million words, and there aren't enough words in our language to properly express it. But love is a language the heart understands; the fervent eloquence I felt from Pyro as his thumb stroked my back and his other hand caressed my cheek brought fresh tears to my eyes.

I smiled warmly at him, suddenly full of tender gratitude. "I've never... kissed anyone on purpose before," I murmured softly. "Tonight has been... one of the best nights of my life."

"Neither have I," he whispered in return. "I've never even touched anyone purposely before." He paused, then slowly continued. "Tonight has been... the only best night of my life."

I gazed at him in surprise. "Never?"

"No, never," he answered with a hint of sadness. It was sad because it was true; I guessed it would have been even sadder if I weren't occupying the lonely space in his arms at that moment.

"Wow," I murmured in genuine amazement, feeling honored to be there with him. Why had he decided to let me in, into the guarded fortress that was his life? Then again, why had I decided to let him into mine? "Well, I..." I suddenly smiled into his eyes, lifting my fingers to gently brush away stray tendrils of hair from his forehead. "You're... perfect at it," I said finally. The compliment touched him deeply; he didn't answer, but I could see it in his eyes. I trailed my fingertips down the side of his face and brushed a kiss against the tip of his nose. "We should make up for lost time, then."

"We are," he said then, his voice husky and soft. "There's a lot of time to make up for."

Exhaling softly, I gently touched his cheek. "Aslan willing," I replied, gazing into his blue eyes, "we will have a very, very, very long time to regain what was lost." My smile warmed with joy. "St. John, there is always, always hope. We've been given that... you and me both. In just... one day. Imagine a week of this," I went on, feeling the sparkle in my eyes. "Or a month."

"Or more." He said it so close on the heels of my own sentence that he nearly interrupted. Suddenly I knew what it was to see forever in someone's eyes: The promise of eternity was beginning to take shape in his warm blue gaze.

"Or more," I breathed in return, moved to awe.

He was gazing steadily at me. Then, because I couldn't bear to meet his eyes anymore, I pressed my cheek against his and whispered in his ear. "Oh, St. John, there will be other days... other nights better than this one. You'll see." With a sigh, I hugged his neck. "Though this one is... incredible."

He was tired, and I knew he was. So was I. Tonight had to end at some point, but I was procrastinating. I felt as if I had to build some kind of foundation tonight, while I could - while the walls were down and the magic was here - and that the stronger that foundation became tonight, the longer it would last. And I didn't want him to feel that I was being aloof, at all, so I made a most unprecedented request.

There was a smile in my words. "St. John... kiss me again."

"Gladly," was his response, and he drew back to press his lips against mine.

His enthusiastic acceptance won my heart, whatever my reasons, and with closed eyes I pulled him close and returned the kiss with all the fervor that it was given.

Was it merely a moment? Or an hour? Or all of eternity? I couldn't tell. I opened my eyes in the midst of our kiss and my breath hitched: St. John was looking directly at me with his whole heart in his blue eyes. As easily as if I could read his mind, I could see - and feel - what he was thinking like a whisper in my soul:

_I wish our lips didn't have to part. I wish I could freeze this moment and stay like this forever._

I closed my eyes and surrendered, utterly swept away.

When the kiss at last came to a slow, lingering end, I opened my eyes a little and smiled at him. There were no words, no thoughts: Only pure, undiluted emotions. With a deep sigh, I settled down to rest my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes again and smiling with sleepy euphoria.

"Stay," I whispered after a moment. Then, as if to justify myself: "The carpet ate my pillow."

"Bloody carpet," was his quiet comment, accompanied by a gravely chuckle.

My soft giggle faded into another sigh, and I nestled my face against his neck with my hand resting over his heart, more asleep than awake. A moment later I stirred without opening my eyes. My trust in Pyro, at that moment, was absolute.

"Goodnight, love," I whispered.

Pyro gently pulled me closer. "Goodnight, Violar."

Without looking at him, I knew he fell asleep smiling. That was the last thing I remember before I, too, drifted away in perfect contentment.


	10. In The Morning

I was deliciously groggy.

This might not seem out of the ordinary, at first glance. But centaurs are never groggy. As a rule the whole race sleeps light, awakening at the first sign of trouble or any nearby movement that might lead to eventual trouble. Having spent six years in a desert crawling with evildoers, I am especially sensitive.

But not on that morning.

Snuggled in St. John's arms, I felt completely safe and content. There were no nightmares. There was no urgency. There was no past, no future... only the present. Only the here and now. And it was too wonderful to leave.

However distantly, I registered that I was being moved from living warmth and onto a plush pillow. I sank into it with a mumble about some long-forgotten dream. From far away I heard a _THUD_, and I remember giggling. That was all.

Someone was calling me in a quick, breathless, pain-laden tone. "Violar..."

I was still for a few more seconds... until panic crashed into me. The voice was Pyro's. It worked like a bucket of cold water: I shot straight up, my silver eyes clear and coherent and fixed right on him. Pyro was lying on the floor in obvious distress.

In a single bound, I was off the couch and kneeling at his side. "St. John, St. John," I cried, my hand firmly on his shoulder. A cold hand of dread clenched around my heart. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

Pyro suddenly flinched away from my hand as if the soft touch had burnt him, and he let out a low cry. I ripped my hand away, my eyes widening: The brief contact had hurt him, but I didn't know why. Jolting backwards, Pyro weakly pushed himself upright with shaky limbs. "I don't know..." And then his arms gave out and he collapsed on the carpet.

"St. John..." Pale and frightened, I moved over him, fighting every impulse that screamed to reach out and take him in my embrace and soothe him. It was just going to backfire. "I... I'm sorry, I don't have my herbs with me... I'd at least have something for the pain, maybe, but it..." I broke off, not wanting to mention the mansion - not now. There were faint tendrils of anger already finding their way into my consciousness, and I didn't want to do anything to make those flares worse.

Pyro didn't seem to hear or understand me. His eyes were dull and blank and his forehead had broken out in sweat, and I swallowed hard, forcing down a surge of panic. Healers don't generally panic, and I had been in many life-and-death situations where a cool head and quick thinking were vital to my patients' survival.

But this... this was different. I had _kissed_ him the night before...

Suddenly Pyro glared up at me, flames burning in his icy blue eyes. "What are you doing to me?"

His accusation - and his glare - hit me like a punch in the gut. My jaw dropped and I sat back on my heels, choking.

"St. John!" I cried, anguished. Did he not believe me? All the color drained from my cheeks. "Don't you remember anything from last night?" I half-whimpered. "I can't hurt you... I couldn't!"

The look in his eyes twisted my stomach until I felt almost as nauseated as he surely did. Pyro didn't answer, but he ripped his glare away and stared dully across the room, his head nodding slowly as if it weighed too much to hold it upright. He acted as if he had inwardly dropped all charges against me.

But I... I was a ruin. My heart felt like it had been brutally stabbed and torn from my chest. How I wanted to collapse in a heap and just cry... just cry. I was so helpless. But I couldn't. I had to stay strong for Pyro's sake, to get him some help. And judging by the way he determinedly scooted backwards and levered himself to a sitting position against the side of his recliner, it wasn't going to be easy. But I had to try...

"Please don't say things like that," I finished. I took a deep breath, my survival instincts at last kicking in and overriding panic. "We need to... to get you some help. From healers. I don't... I don't know what to do." That was painful to admit, but pride didn't matter now. Holding out a hand to him in a pleading gesture, I half-whispered, "St. John, help me help you, _please_. I can't lose you..."

I gulped. This wasn't a mere case of food poisoning from Chinese restaurant food. Some inherent healer's instinct told me that whatever was going on was very serious, and I was more frightened at that moment than I'd been in years.

Pyro didn't answer, and his stare remained fixed on the wall. I couldn't tell whether I was softening him or not. He didn't want my help. He didn't want anyone's help. In his own mind, he wasn't worthy of it. His demeanor was sullen and aloof: He was pushing me away. And I wouldn't let him.

"Tell me what to do," I begged. My voice was shaking. "I... know how to use a phone... do you have one here? I don't know who to call or anything..."

Slowly Pyro turned to look at me with suffering in his blue eyes. Lines in his young face bore silent testament to intense agony, and I gritted my teeth and bitterly fought down another wave of tears.

"Where would we go?" Pyro replied in a weak, uncaring voice. He had given up - as those who live the life of an outlaw do when they know they've reached the end and can no longer run from fate. A sigh escaped his pale lips. "I... have a phone in the kitchen... I can't... go to a hospital. If they do a blood test on... me and find out I'm a... mutant..." Pausing after every few words, he tried to breathe. His shortness of breath transferred directly to me. "Not everyone likes us... and I run the risk... of them killing me... if I go."

St John leaned his head wearily against the recliner and gazed up at the ceiling, and he was quiet for a long moment while I tried to keep myself from falling apart. I was frightened, and hurt, and scared, and I couldn't afford to be - not now.

His next words pierced through me like a hot poker: "We need to go to... the mansion."

My heart plummeted. Pyro was resigned to the knowledge that he was about to die.

_No,_ I thought fiercely, anger rising from the ashes of complete devastation. _I will not LET him die. He can't..._

No more. I couldn't allow emotion any more. I knew what I had to do.

I blinked fiercely at my impending tears and climbed to my feet. Shoving all my feelings aside, I pulled at the collar of my black turtleneck and slammed my hand on the sapphire beneath, shifting immediately into a centaur so large I had to duck slightly to avoid hitting my head on the ceiling.

"I'll take you." My voice was artificially calm and almost cold. "Climb on my back... put your arms around my waist... and please hurry." Trotting over to him, I buckled my long limbs and sat down on the carpet.

While I held out my hand to him, my logical mind was already racing ahead - a battle habit of mine. "I won't let anything happen to you," I added. I had never seen the X-Men harm anyone, or turn away anyone who needed help... but Pyro was obviously an old enemy. Depending on their reaction to him, I might find myself in a most compromising position. My loyalties could be tested to the limit, I realized.

And if it came down to it, I was going to fight for Pyro.

He crawled towards me, and I seized him by the collar and half-dragged the weak mutant onto my broad golden back. His hold around my waist was barely there, as if he had no more strength than a straw-stuffed scarecrow. I lurched to my hooves and retrieved my cream-colored trench coat from a peg on the wall, but although it was a wintry gray New York morning, Pyro refused my offer to cover him with it.

Still I hesitated. I didn't like the idea of taking him outside in this sort of January weather - especially not in his condition - without a coat. So I didn't put it on myself, draping it over one forearm instead. As soon as he started to shiver, I'd cover him with it and ignore his protests.

"Violar... can... you move over there... I need to get something." In slow motion, Pyro inclined his head toward the table.

Without thinking, I moved where he indicated - until my eyes fell on what he was after: His lighter. His precious lighter: His comfort, his sidekick, his weapon. I froze mid-stride, one hoof caught in midair, and cast a worried glance at my passenger. We were going to the mansion, and he hated the X-Men... and who knew how the X-Men felt about him...

This could be disastrous.

"St. John," I wheedled in my softest, most persuasive tone, "let me carry this for you." Swinging my golden body away from the table so he couldn't reach it himself, I picked up his lighter, strap and all, and tucked it into my belt. Pyro watched every move like a hawk. If he had possessed the strength, he would have fought me like a wildcat for that lighter, and well I knew it. But I was past the point of caring.

"Alright," I said, taking a deep breath, "let's get going."

I secured my hands over his, gripping them firmly despite the pain I knew the contact would cause him, and I tucked my forearm - trench coat and all - against my ribs. I leaned down, opened the door, and let us outside into the cold shock of early morning. A shiver ran down my spines and out my tail, but I was careful as I took the stairs, one hoof at a time, until I was level with the sidewalk. Then I broke into a swift canter, lengthening my strides as far as I possibly could to provide St. John with a smooth ride, and I flew across his front lawn.

"Hang on, St. John," I encouraged gently. "I'll get you help. Don't worry about anything, just trust me."

Deep down, I felt my spirits sinking. I forced my legs to run faster.

Morning commuters had to slow down and stare at the odd sight of a gold female centaur galloping by, dressed in black, with a weary rider clinging to her back. I ignored them all as I raced up one street and down another, my thoughts far too occupied for minor concerns. And cold wind was not the only reason for the tears in my eyes.

I was not going to let this boy die...


	11. The Legacy Virus

I entered the mansion through the back door and stole through the corridors, hearing nothing but the pounding of my own heart and the clop of my hooves against the hard floor. Pyro sat on my back, draped wearily against me as if he had no strength of his own. In a way, I was glad: I felt a fierce, boiling anger building inside of him, which he couldn't act on without strength and without his lighter - which I'd prudently stolen from him.

Sneaking into the mansion without anyone seeing me hadn't been easy, but it wasn't the first time I'd accomplished such a feat. I draped my coat over Pyro when I wasn't running at breakneck pace anymore. It helped hide him, and warm him, and hopefully it provided a little respite from the intense light.

Feeling like a cornered animal, I cantered into the coldly metallic MedLab.

"Alright... we're here," I announced unnecessarily. I trotted over to the cold table and touched it, flinching away at the temperature. "Brr," I muttered. Taking my trench coat from Pyro's shoulders, I spread it over the table, then carefully helped an unresisting Pyro down from my back and directly to a sitting position on the bed, wishing I had pillows and blankets to make him more comfortable. The MedLab was designed for little more than emergency convenience.

I leaned over him and risked brushing my hand over his cheek, gazing for a moment into his blue eyes. Fortunately, he didn't object.

"Hey," I whispered. "Don't you die on me, alright?" Memories of the night before flooded over me, and I softened a little. "I still need you to protect me from that awful carpet," I told him, an empty smile hovering on my pale mouth. "Without you, I... I don't know what I'll do." My smile faded. I was very serious about that.

Slowly Pyro lifted his head and looked me straight in the eyes. "I'm not planning on dying," he said with a determination that was almost convincing enough to be a relief. A wisp of a smile appeared on his lips, then faded away again.

But it had been enough to raise my hopes.

I remained near him for a moment, and in the silence, I heard approaching footsteps. My heart leapt into my throat. Whirling away from Pyro, I planted my hooves and fixed a fierce, primal glare on the door, feeling like some desperate mother creature defending her vulnerable baby.

It was a slender red-head who appeared in the doorway a moment later, and she was knocked back on her heels at the sight of me. No wonder: She'd never seen me like _that_ before, fierce and wild-eyed and with black windblown hair like a flaming lion's mane.

"Alisha." My breath exploded in a gasp of relief, and I felt myself shrink from a terrible centaur into a more hospitable being. "I need your help," I went on without preamble, trotting up to the bewildered girl. "He's sick and..."

Alisha was craning sideways, peering around me at Pyro. "Who's he?"

I came to a stop, keeping my body firmly between my roommate and my new friend. "Listen, we don't have time," I snapped. "He's very sick. Find Storm and tell her that St. John is very sick."

Dumbstruck, Alisha nodded. I gripped her by the shoulders and gave her a quick shake, bringing the girl out of her tumbling thoughts. "Quickly, Alisha. There's no time."

Nearly tripping over her own feet, Alisha spun about and disappeared down the hall.

I sighed and trotted back to Pyro's side, tucking his lighter in my belt - which the young mutant noticed. There I began a vigil, waiting for help to arrive and keeping a close eye on Pyro without really looking at him. I couldn't; it was too painful.

Presently he spoke. "Violar... I think I know what's wrong with me." His low tone of voice told me that he really did know.

I grew very attentive and trotted close to stand before him, looking straight into his eyes. I swallowed hard, my face still strained and somewhat pale.

"Well... whatever your conclusion is, I hope it doesn't include me," I said, and I knew my silver eyes betrayed hurt at his earlier accusation. "I didn't do it, St. John... by the mane of Aslan, I didn't do it." I took a quick breath, the muscles in my neck tightening painfully from stress. Tentatively I raised one hand and brushed his hair out of his face. At least hair wasn't sensitive; I didn't run the risk of physically hurting him that way.

"No, Violar, it's not." He allowed me to touch his hair as I pleased, making no move to either discourage or encourage me. I was grateful that he didn't object: I couldn't bear to stand there and do nothing for him; his suffering hurt me, more than I could've said. "I didn't know what was going on this morning and I didn't mean to blame you for anything. I'm..." He stopped short of an apology. "I didn't mean to blame you."

I drew another breath, this time of relief. Then I gave him a mischievous half-smile.

"It was that evil carpet, wasn't it," I teased softly. "If it was your carpet, I'll kill it for this. No carpet does this to you and gets away with it."

Pyro was momentarily amused, but my smile faded when he dropped his gaze to the floor in a downcast fashion. I started to say something else, but a wave of tears rushed to my throat. I was forced to pause and swallow them back.

"St. John," I whispered. "How... how bad is it? _What_ is it? Please tell me."

Slowly he lifted his eyes to mine. "It's... very bad, Violar."

My eyes flamed. I wanted to snap at him: _Uh, yeah. I gathered that._ But Pyro was struggling to continue; I could see him wrestling mentally with what to say. So I bit my sarcastic tongue and waited. Finally he went on:

"A while ago... I had a friend who... was also a mutant. He died from... a virus. A virus that... only affects mutants." Pyro hesitated, and my healer's heart plummeted. I raised my eyebrows and prompted him to continue. "These are the exact... symptoms he had when he... contracted the virus." I felt a rush of panic from Pyro in my Danger Sense as he got out one last sentence. "It... puts them through agony before... they die."

Time stopped cold. Wisps of hair slipped away from my frozen fingers. Then, my head reeling, I pushed myself away from his bed, stumbling over my hooves in a daze as I walked unsteadily across the MedLab. I didn't know where I was or where I was going; I just had to get away.

I stopped right before I reached the wall. Slowly I turned and tottered back to the table, coming to a halt near Pyro's side, unable to look at him. I rested shaking fists on the table and slumped over, stricken. My whole body felt weak. How could this have happened?

My long hair fell over my face and concealed my expression of agony. But there was no concealing the fierce sob that suddenly escaped me. Beneath my thick veil of hair, my face was contorted, and tears were pouring down and my shoulders were shaking violently. Never mind that I cared very much for Pyro, but... why? Why did he have to die? Why _now?_

After a long moment, I drew a long, shattered breath and choked out in a strangely altered voice, "You can't die, St. John. I won't let you."

There was a long silence, but I couldn't pull myself together enough to look at him. Finally Pyro said quietly, "There's no cure."

Anger exploded inside of me, and one of my hooves came down hard against the cold floor. "I don't care."

Pyro sounded almost surprised. "There isn't, Violar. It mutates rapidly. They can't find a cure quick enough..."

_I know that. I KNOW that!_ I wanted to scream. Instead I gritted my teeth and said again, "I don't care." My voice was sullen and stubborn to my own ears, but that's exactly how I felt. I was going to make my friendship - and my relationship - with Pyro work, and I was going to make him live while I was at it. "You can't die... There _has_ to be a cure. If I have to find one..."

I lost it. I bowed my head over my forearms, sobbing shamefully against the table. I couldn't find a cure in a week; I knew that. And I had been through this before... many times. I'd lost patients from fatal wounds or critical illness. But never with someone I'd almost dared to trust my heart to. Not someone I didn't even know existed 24 hours ago - but had kissed, rather impulsively, less than 12 hours ago. This just... wasn't fair!

"Why?" I cried plaintively, turning my head slightly in his direction, but not daring to raise it. "Why did it have to be you? Why now? We had so many plans... there was so much... and now it's all gone... and we didn't have a chance..."

I couldn't see Pyro, but I could feel his emotions keenly. He was tearing apart on the inside as much as I was. I could hear his shaky breathing.

"I know... and I don't know," he whispered hoarsely. A moment later I felt his hand on my shoulder, and he rubbed gently at my back.

That was too much. He was the one dying, and he was comforting _me_. I dissolved under his touch and cried harder, coughing beneath wracking sobs. Pyro went on rubbing my back, and I could not stop the tears from falling. We stayed that way for a long time.

When I could move again, I lifted my head slightly and pressed my face against his ribs. As if through a thick curtain, the dim realization that I could be hurting him with even that light contact tugged at my consciousness, but he wrapped his arms gently around my head and didn't move away. Neither did I - not when I wanted to throw my arms around him and engulf him in my strong embrace and tell him... something. I didn't even know what to say. There was so much to say, and yet nothing... nothing. What could I tell him now? How could I place importance on a single ounce of what I wanted to impart to him, or what I wanted to hear from him, when at some point in the very near future, it wasn't going to matter?

The second dim realization that came to me was that Pyro was the one who was dying, and that he was going to be separated from me as well, and he was being a whole lot braver about it than I was. That knowledge shamed my tears back into their vaults - the ones that hadn't already flooded over and spilled down my cheeks. My frantic efforts to restore my courage caused me to tremble as if I were freezing cold, because inside, I wasn't just falling apart: I _had_ fallen apart already. Now I had to take those broken pieces and somehow hold myself together.

Clenching my jaw, I forced my eyes halfway open. The whole world was blurry and colorless. I lifted my head from his arms and escaped his embrace too easily: The indestructible Pyro from last night was gone; the solid strength had faded away, and I felt how weak and vulnerable he was. It was... awful.

I looked into his eyes, and I tried to speak, but nothing came out - nothing but a wordless plea. Pyro gazed back at me with emotional and physical pain in his ice blue eyes, and there was a single tear streak down his face. Yet much of his sullen, angry mask was still firmly in place. My head lowered again - I felt too weak to hold it up, as if Pyro's illness had come over me as well. I slowly released a deep sigh, not moving for fear of what other tears might jar loose if I did.

I swallowed hard. "St. John," I whispered thickly. I closed my eyes, and memories of the night before poured through me - feelings and all. It was terribly bittersweet. It hurt me to admit it, but it had been... wonderful. "At least we had yesterday."

I had to stop there. If I didn't, I was going to burst into tears for his sake. I had to be strong for him... and I was too weak to be strong for myself.

Pyro drew a breath. "Yeah." His arms released me further, and I stood back, sniffing and wiping my eyes. Then I looked at him again - just in time to see him hop off the bed and land on his feet.

"St. John, what are you... HEY!"

Quick as lightning, Pyro snatched the lighter from my belt before I could do anything about it. Even if I had seen that one coming, I doubt I'd have tried to stop him: I was too distraught, and I knew a comfort fire was to him. That, combined with my natural sympathy for people, was a bad combination.

St. John ignored me and busied himself with fixing the leather strap over his forearm to hold the lighter in place. Annoyance broke through my extreme sorrow for a moment, and I was perversely glad of it: It gave me something to grapple with besides the pain of reality.

"You know, you could have just asked," I muttered, but without malice: My voice just came out sad and defeated. I looked down at his feet - in socks. Not boots. He had gone straight from his house, to my back, to the mansion, in socks. Folding my arms, I tapped my hoof in agitation - a remarkably _humanoid_ thing to do, I realized - and cleared my throat.

"Ahem." I looked pointedly at his feet. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Pyro glanced at his feet, then shrugged and turned his back on me as he headed for the door.

I sighed, very upset and knowing I wasn't handling any of this well - which upset me worse. I shook my head as if to shake those thoughts away. "St. John, where are you going?"

"I need to talk to... a few people," he answered without turning around. His steps were weak but sure as he exited the MedLab. "I'm not going to... just sit around here when I'm going... to die in a week."

I stood rooted to the spot, utterly heartsick. Normally I would have blocked his path, forcing him to remain in the room until Storm or Alisha or... someone arrived. Anyone. Anyone who could help him more than I could...

But this time, I just stood there and watched. I was in too much pain to care. Aside from the sudden discovery that Pyro didn't have much time left, he wasn't willingly turning to me for help. He didn't want to need me. And I wanted to need him.

He was through the door and down the hall, and nearly out of sight, when I finally started after him on unsteady limbs. My tail flicked at every few steps whenever I slightly lost my balance. The door slid shut behind me when I exited the MedLab. My silver eyes were on Pyro.

"What are you saying? Of course I need you," I said in a deadpan tone. But I meant it. "I'm coming with you." There was no stubbornness in my voice now - only the simple fact that I couldn't leave him. Not when he had just a week to live.

_A week. One week. Seven days._

"I'm coming with you," I said again.

Pyro barely glanced over his shoulder at me. "Fine." Anger fairly oozed from him - directed at me along with everyone and everything else in the entire universe. Then he ignored me completely - which hurt deeper than I can describe - and studied the glass tubes where the X-Men kept their uniforms. Specifically Pyro was eyeing the boots contained therein. But he wasn't much of a threat in his current condition, and he couldn't blast open the tubes and steal any boots. I would have been grateful for that... if I still cared.

But I didn't. I was too miserable to care.

"Hey cus!" called a bright female voice a short ways down the hall.

My senses were so muddled and more or less attuned to the overload of anger from Pyro that I didn't feel the other girl's presence at all. I whirling deftly on all four hooves, my hand automatically going to my side - and finding nothing there but empty air. I'd left my swords in my room.

Quickly I assessed the stranger - a blonde girl named Tanya who stayed at the mansion - then nodded to her without relaxing my pose. I knew good and well that Tanya didn't pose any real threat, but I was not in a very hospitable mood either. I whipped my white tail against my flank and let my gaze fall to the floor.

Pyro recognized Tanya as his cousin. I'd never met her before, and I merely stood there without really acknowledging her presence. I believe Tanya is a mutant, but I'm not entirely certain. I've never spoken with her.

I watched through tear-glazed eyes as Pyro and Tanya continued down the hall together and entered a side room. And he closed the door. Pyro clearly wanted to explain his condition in privacy, and he'd shut me out as well - without a word, without a second thought.

I remained in the hall with the electrical buzzing of the fluorescent lighting suddenly loud in the silence. I stared at the door as if I could see through to Pyro on the other side. It began to dawn on me then - what an incredible mistake I'd made in giving him my kiss and my trust. But how could I dwell on that awful realization, in light of the tragedy now looming before us?

I was not about to abandon him. I was going to love him until the end.

I wished Kurt Wagner and Tessa were here. I needed a friend - no, a parent - really badly just then. But they were in Germany. I was fighting this battle alone: Not even Pyro was going to help me. I was on my own.

Storm would be down soon, and then she would discover that an archenemy of the X-Men didn't have long to live. Shortly, Tanya would also know. She was Pyro's cousin. Surely it would upset her.

Somewhere deep down, I was glad about that. Someone like Pyro probably went through life, making enemies who wouldn't care - nay, would be delighted even - when they heard he had a fatal virus. At least he wasn't going to die alone...

But it was going to be a week of hell.

A tear traced a path down my cheek, and I turned away from the door. I was a warrior, and a proud one at that, but this was one challenge I didn't know if I could face. If I had any hope at all of making it through, I needed to get away...

Slowly I left the too-bright hall. All that remained in my dazed memory was that cold floor became carpet beneath my hooves, and I trudged slowly up the stairs: My strength was gone. The next thing I knew, I was in my room, and I nudged the door closed behind me with a hoof. Wearily I touched my choker and shifted into a smaller human girl. I stumbled my way to the couch beneath the window and rolled myself into a warm gray blanket. My breaths came thicker and caught in my throat, and little by little, I gave in to wracking sobs.

I don't even know why I cried. My tears were for Pyro... and for myself. But what hurt me the most is that I was alone - so, so desolately alone.

How many ways can one heart break?


	12. An Unexpected Guest

I cried for hours - that much I knew. Beyond that, I wasn't sure of anything.

When the worst of my sobs subsided, I sat curled up on the couch in my room, wrapped in a thick gray blanket and staring listlessly out the window. I wasn't even sure what the weather was like: Everything looked rainy to me, because I was crying. Again. I couldn't help it. Death had been a part of my life for the past twelve years, but it didn't get any easier with time. It only got harder.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to be alone. I wasn't sure if I wanted company. I wasn't sure if I wanted to pretend that nothing was wrong, or to face my misery and cry it all out. Oh, but I hated crying. It was... so humiliating. And if there was anything that rubbed a centaur's fur the wrong way, it was humiliation.

"Not that it's a good thing," I mumbled to myself. Then again, my whole interaction with Pyro had been a string of humiliations, and for some reason I'd been willing to brave that to reach him.

I wasn't sure of the way I felt, either: I was too numb and in shock to puzzle it all out, and I had stolen a quiet moment all to myself to cry in private. Maybe I really _did_ want to be alone...

As if to rebel against my wishes, a soft knock at the door shattered the solitude. I bit my lip, hoping it wasn't bad news about Pyro, and I stared at the door and secretly hoped that whoever was on the other side would go away and leave me alone.

But I heard no retreating footsteps. My visitor was determined. With a sigh, I reluctantly uncurled my legs and rose, pulling the trailing blanket close around my shoulders and wiping my eyes on a corner of the soft fabric as I crossed the room. At least my pride demanded that I look halfway presentable. I hadn't lost that.

Knowing that I still looked as miserable as I felt and fully aware that I was lousy company, I hesitated - then quietly turned the knob and opened the door, my eyes on the floor. "Hello," I greeted automatically in a soft tone, staring at a fine pair of shiny black patent-leather shoes.

Then I lifted my gaze to the rest of his expensive suit and froze. Of all the people to be standing outside my door at that moment...

"Bond James Bond," I breathed, feeling as if I'd seen a ghost. I stood there, staring at him warily - not saying anything. I couldn't say anything. Memories of our first and only meeting surfaced - complete with an undesired kiss initiated by Bond James Bond, to which I reacted with a sudden flare of anger before I ran away.

And yet here he was, standing outside my door. Why? I bit my lip, worried.

"Just call me James," he said in the rich, warm voice I remembered, but I didn't pay attention to what he said because already he'd moved closer to me, brushing gentle fingers over tear streaks. I didn't flinch away.

"I apologize for leaving," he went on, "but something rather important came up. Might I ask why you've been crying?"

I didn't move while he brushed away my tears. In all truth, I was grateful. I twitched the blanket more firmly about my shoulders and hugged my arms close. How different I was now, today, from the confident creature who'd confronted this man only a few months ago and bandied words with him.

I shook my head quickly, finding my voice. "It's alright. I expected... that you would leave. It's your life, I know." I took a step back from the door, pulling the blanket still closer as I broke his touch on my cheek. I was a little nervous around him, but I could still be a gracious hostess.

"Come in," I invited quietly - and he did, his gaze never leaving mine. I had trouble meeting that gaze. "There are... there are a lot of things I have to tell you. But the reason I'm upset right now is..." I broke off and drew a long breath, fighting for composure. My dignity hung by a slender thread, and I didn't want to burst into tears in front of anyone - perhaps least of all Bond James Bond. "A friend of mine is dying." I bit my lip yet again. That wasn't a habit familiar to me, but I needed that sharp jolt of pain to keep me from falling apart. It was a matter of survival.

"Well I won't be leaving again, you have my word on that," said Bond James Bond. "And I'm so very sorry to hear about your friend. If you'd like to be alone, perhaps I could come back at a better time... I'm staying at a hotel in the city."

I simply shook my head and turned away to close the door, then moved past him and crossed the room. Without ignoring him completely, I curled up in my corner of the couch, pulling the gray blanket around me for security and warmth.

"Thank you, Master Bond." My voice was very quiet. "I don't think I want to be alone just now... and... and it's alright. It's just a bit of a shock. It's just that... one day, you meet a stranger," I explained, trying to sum up the bewildering events of the past 24 hours in a few short sentences, "and that stranger brought you hope that you never dared hope for, and then, just like that..." I snapped my fingers. "It's gone, it's all gone. And I don't know _why_. One week, Master Bond... that's all. That's all we've got. I just found out a little while ago."

I winced at my own inane rambling. I drew a deep sigh, keeping myself together by sheer strength of will. I lifted my eyes to his as he knelt before the sofa, the very picture of a sympathetic listener.

"In any case, I'm glad to see you're alright, Master Bond," I went on, shifting my attention fully to him. "I wondered what happened to you. I know that I was... very angry... when we last parted, but I prayed for Aslan to watch over you and keep you safe." I offered my best smile - a hollow shadow of the one normally belonging to me, but I didn't have much to give.

For a moment Bond James Bond stared at the floor, as if he were moved beyond words. Then he looked up at me.

"They sent me to Russia. It was all routine - nothing I hadn't done before, dozens of times. But someone betrayed me. I'm still not sure who it was, but they succeeded, and I almost lost my life over it. You may not believe me when I tell you this, but I kept thinking to myself, 'I have to survive this... I have to survive so I can go and apologize to that woman'." He smiled and patted my knee gently. "Thank you for that."

My broken heart lurched into my throat. What a beautiful gift he brought with him at a terrible time like this, and I couldn't help appreciating it with all my wounded soul - even though I didn't deserve it. I'd been awful to him that night, and I knew it.

Fresh tears sparkled in my eyes, but when I smiled at him, it was softer and more genuine than before. Reaching out, I settled a hand on his shoulder.

"I do believe you," I answered quietly. "The reason I survived many battles in-" I decided to leave my native country out of the conversation for the time being "-where I come from is because I too had something I was determined to live for. I'm... grateful that I could be that to you, Master Bond. But perhaps selfishly, I'm even more grateful that you came back... so that _I_ could apologize to _you_."

My smile grew sheepish and a little shy, and I withdrew my hand again. It disappeared in the folds of my blanket. "It wasn't entirely your fault that I was so angry. I don't..." I chuckled a little in embarrassment, but it was good to laugh, even for a moment - even at myself. And it made Bond smile. "I don't like to be kissed without permission, or so quickly after meeting someone, 'tis all true enough... but there was a little more to it than that. You could say you caught me at a bad time."

My changeable smile was apologetic then. "At the time, I was in love. And I still am. But that love is not returned, and he does not know of my feelings - nor will he ever. To be kissed by one who is willing when you wish for the kiss of another is not an easy thing, and that is the best way I can explain it."

Bond was still smiling softly as he knelt and leaned sideways on the coffee table in a pose that was remarkably casual and undignified for someone like him.

"That one kiss helped keep me alive," he explained in his own turn. "The reasons I kissed you were selfish, I will admit to that. I thought, perhaps, it was the last time I would see you... So selfishly, I wanted something to remember you by. Of course that probably sounds stupid, but it's the honest truth... As far as love is concerned, I'm not sure I've ever felt it. I've never given myself that chance. But obviously, things have changed for me. I'm no longer anyone's puppet; the strings have all been cut loose, and perhaps I've changed... and learned from my mistakes. I suppose only time will tell."

Such a collage of emotions stirred inside of me that I couldn't latch on to any one of them. But this strange confession went straight to my heart. I lowered my head, my hand emerging to trace idle circles on the blanket. Either Bond James Bond was a consummate womanizer who was so good at smoothtalking that I couldn't see through his insincerity, or I really had had some kind of an effect on him in a single night. There was no way to know, but I was in no place to challenge him.

"I forgive you, Master- I'm sorry," I interrupted myself suddenly, remembering belatedly his admonishment, "James. I forgive you." I gave him a little smile. "I'm glad you kissed me, then. I... didn't know." I winced at the memory of my sudden reaction. "I am sorry too that it was not so well received, or returned. You are a strong man, James, but not impervious. I'm terribly sorry if I hurt you. I wasn't thinking of much besides myself that evening, I do remember that much, and I'm not proud of that - even if my outward reasons seemed noble, they were still rooted in selfishness, and I know I was not kind."

I felt calmer and more composed, and incredibly relieved to have gotten that load off my conscience. And Bond, in his usual enigmatic way, remained on his knees as if he were content to listen to a distraught girl pour out her heart all afternoon. So I found myself going on.

"As for time? Time is something very precious, because every moment of every day, we lose it. It runs out, and there's no way to recapture it. But if you learned from the past, James," I said, my smile growing still warmer, "then it was time well spent. Sometimes things in life have to be learned the hard way, even if pain is involved in the lesson." I chuckled wryly, picking at a tiny piece of stray lint. "I know that only too well. But," I added, looking up at him suddenly, "if you need help finding whoever betrayed you, I'll be more than happy to offer my assistance. Just... let me get through this week first, and give me a little time after that. I'm... not... doing too well."

I _really_ hated to admit that, but I felt I owed it to him.

Bond nodded softly, and then he was beside me, sitting on the couch and gently caressing my cheek. The gesture in all its comforting kindness just about broke my heart. I looked down, struggling to hold back tears.

"I'm very sorry you have to go through this," he said quietly. "No one deserves to lose someone they care about, especially someone like you. You're quite possibly the most amazing woman I've ever met, and believe me, I have met quite a few. I just want you to know that if you need anything - anything at all - I'm right here."

That did it. The combination of his touch, his words, and the genuine caring behind them caused me to burst into tears. Lifting a shaking hand to my forehead, I hid my misery behind it, but I managed to nod in response - saying nothing. My words were swallowed up momentarily.

I forced myself to regain some of my composure and choked back a sob. "I'm not really amazing, James... not really. I'm ordinary and I make mistakes and I don't know what to do, because I have questions without answers." It didn't make much sense, surely, but I shook my head and brushed that nonsense aside. It had an explanation, but I was too overwrought to go into details.

"I don't want to hurt you by speaking of it," I said, glancing at him and just as quickly looking away, "in case you find yourself in my position: Chasing a shadow. Downstairs, in the MedLab, they're doing tests on a man I met very recently. He is the first I've ever kissed on purpose."

I glanced up at him apologetically, because I was admitting this to a man whom I had deliberately refused to kiss in return. Unphased, he went on gently stroking my cheek - hinting at an amazing nature of his own. "Then I found out he had a week to live. He didn't know either... we found out at the same time... and I'm just... trying to deal with everything and it's hard, it's really hard. I'm sorry to be like this."

I hid my face briefly against the blanket and fought against the tears that refused to stop coming. "I'll be alright... eventually."

Bond continued to brush away my tears and a few stray locks of my hair, and I couldn't look at him anymore. Here he was, comforting me in a time of great need, and I was still refusing to consider any further relationship beyond friendship between us. He and I both knew it. I also knew that whatever he felt for me, for whatever reason he felt it, was very strong. And I was powerless to reciprocate those feelings. I didn't want to hurt him... but I didn't have a choice.

Somehow he understood that.

"You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for," Bond replied in gentle tones. "I'm afraid I'm not much help though: My own feelings, combined with the fact that throughout the years I have had to accept death as a frequent occurrence, makes me unable to help you as I would like to. But if there's anything you need, let me know. Even if it's just someone to listen."

My heart twisted. He expected nothing from me in return. Embracing it required a kind of surrender on my part. It hurt my proud, independent nature, but I pushed all that away and accepted his gentle ministrations with closed eyes. It was a moment of comfort, like a peaceful island in a turbulent sea - or like the eye of a hurricane. I had been through much, but there was more still to come.

"Thank you, James," I breathed in little more than a hoarse whisper. I meant it with all my heart. "That means more to me than you know."

His smile was acknowledgment enough, and my eyes slid away from his again. I was silent for a moment.

"There is one thing," I ventured quietly. "I haven't... the heart to face him right now, but could you... could you deliver a message for me, to Angel? Actually, his real name is Warren Worthington III, but his mutant codename is Angel. In a short time, when they've finished whatever they're doing in the MedLab, I'm going to stay with St. John - otherwise known as Pyro - for a week of... of absolute misery. I'm not looking forward to it, but I won't back down now. I just might not be the same when I come back." I bit my lip even harder. "Anyways, if it's not too much trouble, could you tell Angel where I'll be and what I'll be doing?"

Bond merely nodded and drew me gently into his arms, and I gave in and rested my head carefully against his shoulder. The knot in my throat sent tears down my face, which Bond dutifully swept away. I was silent while I cried: Some of the tears pooling onto his fine suit were also shed for him.

For a little while Bond and I remained in that fragile embrace, and he gently rubbed at my back. The rich scent of his cologne seemed very foreign to me, somehow.

Swallowing hard, I drew away from him at last and nodded to express my gratitude. But there were no words: My heart hurt, and my eyes were full of tears. I swallowed hard and clenched my jaw to hold them back, and I managed to smile without looking at him. I nodded again.

Bond James Bond knew it was time. He rose from the couch and touched my cheek one last time, then took my hand in his. I gripped it fiercely, then released it - and him. And I knew, as I watched his blurry form cross the room and disappear through the doorway, that I would never see him again.

The door closed softly behind him, and I closed my eyes as tears streaked down my face and overwhelmed me once more. I was alone again.

Sometimes words are only words.


	13. Cheerios

Hunger drove me from my sanctuary.

Despite all my grief, the complaining of my relentless metabolism could no longer be ignored. I left my room in search of something to eat, but I didn't want to go into the kitchen: It felt too public. The fewer who saw me in such deplorable condition, the better.

I trotted blindly into the lounge, my normally bouncy white tail quite listless. Abruptly I realized I was being spoken to and came stumbling to a halt, gazing through incoherent silver eyes at a pretty woman in a green hoodie and black gloves who was sitting on the couch.

"Hey there sugah... Wow, somebody forget to eat their Cheerios this mornin' or what?"

_Cheerios? What did Cheerios have to do with anything?_

My gaze wandered again before I brought it forcibly back to Rogue. "What? I'm sorry, what?" I gave my head a quick shake, then reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose. In truth, I hadn't eaten all day, and the effects of that, combined with sorrow over Pyro's predicament, had dragged my emotions right through the mud. As evidence of that, I knew streaks were still on my face. My ability to think was in shambles as well, though the young woman's words - wrapped in a soft drawling accent - were easy to understand.

I took a deep breath and looked at the woman again, quite seriously. She was observing me, I realized belatedly, but her scrutiny was kind. Her dark hair was highlighted by twin white locks that framed her face - an intriguing style, I thought privately, but New York was full of interesting fashion ideas. Her dark eyes were bright, and she radiated friendliness... and perhaps a trace of wistfulness.

"I don't really know what Cheerios are, and I didn't eat anything this morning," I answered quietly, finding my voice at last. "And I... didn't see you in here either." My gaze flicked to the open book she held in her lap. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

The woman looked astonished. "Ya don't know what Cheerios are?" I soberly shook my head. She grew thoughtful, then patted the seat next to her. "C'mon and sit down a while, sugah. Ya don't look like you're havin' a very good day there. Here, have a seat and ah'll go get ya somethin' ta drink; how's that sound?"

That sounded... heavenly, at the moment. Wordlessly I nodded, touched my sapphire choker, and shifted down a full three-and-a-half feet to a humanoid-looking girl clad in a black turtleneck, a black skirt, and... black stockings. My boots had been forgotten much earlier that day - a sad fact I hadn't noticed until then.

I sank down onto the couch, aware that I was unusually pale and withdrawn. But kindness was not lost on me.

"Sorry... yes, that... thank you." After a moment of silence, I realized I was being terrible company. "I'm Violar, by the way... more or less a new student at the school, but I haven't had the fortune of meeting you before. I'm sorry, my head is very much elsewhere today, but... but it's a nice day," I added lamely, glancing out the window and noticing that sporadic sunshine was breaking through the gray clouds. I looked up at the woman and offered what little smile I could dredge up in my current condition. "You're very kind," I went on with sincere gratitude. "Thank you."

The woman placed a gloved hand gently on my shoulder - which caused me to sigh deeply and relax a little - and gave a friendly smile in return. "Pleasure's all mine, sugah. Mah name's Rogue. What would ya like ta eat or drink? Ah'll go get it for ya right now..."

"Nice to meet you, Rogue," I answered softly, lowering my eyes to the couch. "It... it doesn't matter, really. Whatever you decide." That wasn't a very good answer to Rogue's question, so I swallowed hard and tried again, my somber gaze hesitantly lifting to Rogue's. "Um... I like SOBEs," I offered, a little hope in my voice. "Or... any kind of juice, or... or even water. And I'll eat anything, I guess."

"Okay sugah, just relax here for a lil bit and ah'll be right back, okay?"

Obediently I sat back on the couch. Rogue was soothing, but even if she hadn't been, I wasn't in much of a mood to go against her wishes. I remained alone, trying to organize my thoughts... and then trying not to think at all.

When next I looked up, I found a tray with a SOBE and a steaming bowl of soup being presented by a very gracious and generous Rogue.

"This should make ya feel at least a lil bit better. If there's anythin' else ya need though, just lemme know and ah'll get it for ya."

I opened my mouth to thank her, but suddenly my eyes filled with tears and I hastily nodded, unable to speak. Suddenly I seized the spoon with a shaking hand, and I dipped into the creamy soup and took a bite. The soup was still hot enough to burn my tongue and throat a little. I was glad of it. When I brushed my tears on my sleeve, the shock treatment acted like a cauterizer and stopped my out-of-control emotions dead in their tracks.

Swallowing hard, I took a long, deep breath to steady my nerves. "Thank you, Rogue." My voice was almost too quiet to hear. "I'm very sorry... One of my dear friends contracted the Legacy Virus, and he's dying. I just found out, and I'm not, um... handling it very well." My cheeks burned with shame, and taking another spoonful of soup, I blew gently at it before taking a much more careful sip. "This... this is good," I offered. It wasn't much to give, and it was hardly worthy of such sweet generosity, but right then it was all I had.

"Now now, don't ya be sorry for nothin', sugah, 'specially for havin' feelin's. We all got 'em, just some of us don't like ta show 'em that often. Hell, even big bad Logan has 'em..." I couldn't help but chuckle at the mention of Logan having feelings, but I broke off with a muffled sob and wiped away another tear. "It's nothin' ta be ashamed of, ta admit we're sad, or lonely, or just plain upset. Sometimes it even helps ta get it out and talk ta somebody about how we feel. Know what ah mean?"

I did. I nodded in defeat. Rogue patted me gently on the back with a gloved hand, and I looked up at her with a glint of gratefulness in my eyes. I felt less stricken, but I didn't dare smile. Smiling might lead to more tears, and despite what Rogue said about tears being a good thing, I couldn't - no, didn't want to - contend with any emotions I didn't have to.

Rogue went on. "Ah really don't think there's anythin' ah can say ta make ya feel better though. Ah mean, a friend dyin' isn't somethin' ya get over too easily. Ah remember how it was when Miss Jeannie died, then about a year later, she came back. Of course, that was when Scott and the Professor died..." The wild crash course in Xavier's history bewildered me, but I didn't interrupt and I didn't ask questions. "But look at how it is now: They're both alive and well, except for the whole thing with the Professor bein' all depressed lately... Mah point is, everythin' happens for a reason, there's a reason they were able ta come back, and ah'm sure if it's meant ta be, your friend'll be back. And if not, ah'm sure they'll always be in your heart, right? So in a way, they're never really truly gone."

Rogue's cheery demeanor was infectious. I listened to her prattle cheerfully on, understanding only a smattering of what she said: Between Rogue's southern accent and my own clouded mind, it was hard to decipher much of anything. But the voice of the speaker was a huge comfort on its own, and some of the sentiments she conveyed actually penetrated my sorrow.

When Rogue finished, I risked a glance at her, then lowered my eyes again. Picking up my SOBE, I twisted off the lid and took a sip. The familiar delicious taste lifted me a little further out of melancholy, enough that I looked up at Rogue and gave her a genuine smile.

"You're right, of course," I answered in a soft voice hoarse from tears and toneless from shock. "It's just... hard. I only met him yesterday, and he had a profound effect on me, and then this morning he just... you know? It was all so sudden. I feel as if someone just ripped a rug out from beneath my hooves, and beneath that rug there was a giant hole, and I'm still falling. I know everyone dies... Aslan knows I've been through enough of that," I rambled on. "I don't know what Aslan's doing to me. It's as if I'm supposed to go through life alone. Even Angel..." I sighed and refused to go into _that_ particular topic.

What troubled me was Rogue's knowing smile at the mention of Angel's name. I tried not to wonder at the meaning behind it.

"There's not a lot that makes sense, Rogue. But you're right... about those we love living on in our hearts. He will live on in mine. He WILL live on in mine," I added with more conviction, suddenly recalling a beautiful song by Celine Dion I'd recently heard - one which had moved me to tears the night it came on the radio, which was a rare occurrence for a tough lady centaur like me. Then, with the ghost of a smile on my lips, I went on. "You'll just have to remind me next month that the sun still shines, and the rainclouds pass away, and that this life is meant to bring us to our ultimate destination at some point or another. It just all seems like it's happening too soon, you know?" I turned an imploring gaze up to Rogue.

Rogue hesitated just briefly, glancing down at her outfit: A long-sleeved hoodie and gloves. Then she leaned over, and I didn't see the hug coming until it was already upon me. With a muffled sob, I wrapped my arms around Rogue and hugged her fiercely, a few more tears breaking free and spilling down my cheeks. A hug was exactly what I wanted - and needed - but I hadn't even known it until Rogue took matters into her own hands. Her gentle accented voice was close to my ear.

"Just remember, at the end of the day, if you're still alive, if you're still breathin', then ya got somethin' ta be thankful for, and that in itself is somethin' ta smile about. Ah know that prolly sounds selfish, but it's the truth, 'cause not everybody's that lucky."

In a moment, I was quieter. Sniffing, I nodded at Rogue's words. "No... you're right," I whispered. Then, rather meekly: "I'll try."

"Have ya thought about maybe goin' ta talk ta the professor?" queried the girl. "Ah know it sounds silly, but he's been rather depressed lately, and ah think maybe the two of ya may be able ta cheer each other up a bit. It's worth a try isn't it?"

Sniffing quietly, I drew back just slightly. "The... the professor? Professor Xavier?" Another embarrassing sniffle escaped me without my permission, and I ducked my head into a hand to partially hide for a moment. I didn't want to tell the Professor about any of this and risk his censure. He was kindly enough, but I didn't know his feelings in regards to Pyro. But if he wasn't doing well... "I... I didn't know... and he's my... my friend," I finished softly. "I DO want to go to him, Rogue. Thank you so much for telling me." I raised my head and give Rogue a teary - but warm and grateful - smile.

She returned a sincere smile of her own and patted me on the back. "Everything'll be just fine, you'll see."

At the moment, Rogue might've been promising me the moon for all the stock I placed in it, but I was desperate to believe it. So desperate, in fact, that I seized that promise with both hands as if afraid it would escape.

"Ah'm gonna be up in Canada for a few days," Rogue went on. "Then ah'll prob'ly go on a little vacation... Ah think maybe you should consider doin' the same, once this is all over..."

"Alright," I replied thoughtfully. "Canada seems like... like a beautiful place. I've... I've seen pictures, anyway." My speech came out choppy in between muffled sniffles. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. "I, um... thank you so much, Rogue," I added suddenly, looking up at her with an expression of pure wonder. Rogue seemed like a Lionsend right then - and perhaps she was. She'd restored a measure of something vital to my survival, and that was no small gift. "Thank you for everything."

Rogue leaned in for another warm hug, which I returned with a sense of desperation. My eyes closed tightly as I absorbed comfort from the other girl. I was going to need it. Next week was going to be absolute misery, and there wouldn't be a drop of water to be found in that desert, so I gratefully accepted what I was offered in the here and now.

Rogue drew back with a sweet smile. "Ah'll come check in on ya when ah get back, okay? Ya just worry 'bout takin' care of yourself and gettin' a smile on that pretty face of yours. Frowns don't suit ya at all sugah."

I ducked my head, then tentatively lifted my eyes and shyly smiled back. Biting my lip against tears, I nodded and looked down again at my soup. "I will," I said softly.

She smiled again and hopped to her feet. "Well, ah better get goin' now. Just remember what ah said sugah, and try ta eat somethin' else. Starvin' yourself ain't helpin' ya none."

A dark wave of pain was aching to cloud my mind again, and Rogue's leaving caused my heart to lurch. I wanted to beg her not to go, to stay and hold back the storm with her sunny disposition - but it was a temporary solace, and I knew it. Inhaling deeply, I nodded.

"I will," I said again. I lifted my hand in a halfhearted gesture of farewell. "Aslan go with you... See you around."

The dark-haired girl with the twin white locks framing either side of her face smiled brightly, gave a cheerful wave, and bounded out of the room with enviable energy.

Left alone, I sighed deeply. I wondered if I would indeed see Rogue around, since Rogue was leaving for Canada and I was thinking about escaping the mansion for quite awhile. Once I left, would I even have the heart to return? I didn't know.

When I thought about Kurt Wagner and Tessa Niles, though, I knew I would be back. I had to see them. And then there was Angel... but I really didn't know if I wanted to see him or not. His presence wasn't exactly comforting. Not that Angel hadn't been a model of kindness and hospitality, it was just... complicated. But there was Logan, and Professor Xavier...

I sighed. Sometimes having a home was a real pain in the neck.

Resolutely I focused on the bowl of soup, forcing down spoonful after spoonful as per Rogue's orders. Soup tasted funny when mingled with bitter salty tears. What a relief it was when the bowl was at last empty, and I sat back into the couch cushions with a sigh and sipped my SOBE, finishing it as slowly as possible. Because when the SOBE was gone, I would have to return to a dark reality from this bright little oasis Rogue had created.

The liquid vanished all too quickly. I was careful to drink the SOBE down to the last drop, tipping the bottle up and tapping it for good measure. Then I screwed the lid on and stood up, gathering the tray in my arms and returning it to the small kitchen area. I tossed the empty bottle in the general direction of the trash can - it was sheer luck that I didn't miss - and left the lounge, waiting until I was past the low doorway before shifting back into my golden centaurian form. With my sudden rise to an elevation of eight feet came a measure of natural dignity, and Rogue's influence was slow to fade. I didn't want it to fade yet, either.

And it would, once I arrived in the MedLab. I hesitated in the middle of the hallway, flicking my tail with indecision.

_No... not yet. I'm not ready._

Turning, I trotted down another corridor altogether. Visiting Professor Xavier sounded like a great idea.


	14. Paris in the Spring

I sniffed and wiped a sleeve over my eyes as I trotted slowly down the hall. I was feeling a little better since Rogue had shared her kindness with me, but my heart still ached - badly - and I felt hollow inside. If the Professor was suffering anything like this, as Rogue had hinted, then I would do anything in my power to help.

I came to a slow halt near the end of the hall and smoothed my hair with shaky fingers. With a halfhearted switch of my tail, I knocked softly on Xavier's door.

"Come in, please," encouraged the gentle voice from within.

Robotically I turned the knob and stepped into the room, then closed the door softly behind me before I looked up. Professor Charles Xavier was sitting on his bed, reading a book, propped up on pillows and covered with a blanket. His signature wheelchair was beside him. He smiled when he saw me, and I clasped my hands and smiled back as best I could under the circumstances.

"Have some tea," he said gently, setting aside his open book and leaning to the tray beside him. He poured dark tea for us both, and my nose told me it was Earl Grey - a strong, spicy flavor I was partial to. "It will calm your nerves, dear."

I felt myself soften. To be in the presence of the Professor, whom I felt could make everything alright, was deeply comforting. With a touch of my choker, I shifted into my smaller humanoid form, pulled a chair to his bedside, sat down and took the teacup gratefully. I needed the warmth radiating from the delicate porcelain as much as I needed the warmth he offered my torn heart. I gazed into the dark steaming liquid for a long moment before looking up at him again.

"Thank you," I said very quietly, and the way his eyes crinkled up with his ancient smile so that they almost disappeared pierced through me. I softened further and lowered my gaze, struggling with grief and guilt. I dearly hoped that I hadn't caused any damage to our relationship - or to the X-Men - by choosing to bring Pyro here, or by befriending Pyro at all. And if the Professor found out that I'd kissed him...

I was most afraid of disappointing him, I discovered. I swallowed down the knot in my throat.

"I haven't seen you in... in too long. How are you, Professor?"

When my eyes found his again, Xavier bestowed another gentle smile upon me and released a deep sigh that he seemed to have been holding in for a long time.

"I'm doing alright, my dear," he replied, glancing out the window. The stormy gray light bathed his lined face in a soft, timeless glow. "I'm just getting everything ready for when Scott returns. I shall make an announcement to the school in a few weeks probably..." He sighed again and brought his eyes back to mine. "You see, I will no longer be in control of the school. I am handing everything over to Scott. Out of all of my students, he was my first, and I know he can be trusted with it."

There was more, I was sure. Professor Xavier was not telling me everything.

After a moment of somber contemplation, I shifted my gaze to my teacup again. Then I set it on the table and settled my hand over the Professor's wrinkled one as it rested on the coverlet.

"I haven't met him yet," I admitted quietly with no little sense of regret. "I've been... busy." Like the Professor, I left out an important piece of my own tale. Then I bit my lip, and when my eyes rose to Xavier's again, they were full of worry. "Are you leaving us?" I wondered softly.

My heart crumbled when he nodded sadly, though he offered his usual warm smile. "I am afraid so, dear. So far Scott and Tessa are the only two who know about it. You would be the third. I have tried to hide it from everyone, so as not to worry them or get them upset..." He sighed and shifted gears. "I'm getting old, dear. In all honesty, after the Pheonix incident, I am lucky to have survived. I look at every day now as a blessing. But they shall soon end. I don't fear death, however. I look at it as a very well deserved vacation."

His words sent a cold chill down my spine, and I stared at him, paralyzed by his hints. Even the Professor's soft chuckle or the way he placed his hand over my suddenly limp fingers did nothing to quell the rising panic inside of me.

"Don't tell anyone else, please," he urged me. "There's no need to trouble them. I shall carry out my duties until Scott comes back. The doctors have given me a good two months... I will miss all of you dearly..."

I couldn't tear my eyes away from him or close my mouth, which had fallen open. I could hardly breathe. He was so calm, so collected... he simply accepted his fate without a single complaint, except an entirely unselfish one: He had to leave his students behind.

But I didn't feel that same sense of calm. Fresh tears welled up inside of me.

"Professor," I whispered achingly, my hands trembling as I closed my fingers over his old, wrinkled ones - still warm and full of life and strength. "Oh, dear, dear Professor..." I brought his hand to my cheek and closed my eyes as a tear traced a path down my cheek.

The Professor was quiet, allowing me to sort out my feelings on my own. And for a long time I couldn't say anything. The sense of loss was overwhelming. If it were just the Professor, it would have been unbearable enough... but it wasn't; there was Pyro too, and I couldn't take another blow of that magnitude. I felt as if the Professor wouldn't have to wait long before he had company in death.

"I'll miss you too," I whispered, my eyes closed tightly - as if by that one action alone I could shut out the pain. "More than you know..."

Mercifully the Professor interrupted me. "Oh no... No, Violar... Don't look at this as goodbye, not at all. I'll never truly leave you all. I shall still be here, whenever you look outside and see the trees, whenever you go downstairs and take a look at the garden... My life's work is both inside and outside of these walls around us. Therefore there is a small piece of me everywhere you turn around. So you see, in a way, I won't every be truly gone, for what mattered most to me, and made me feel truly alive, remains here with all of you..."

I was breaking. I buried my face in the back of his hand, sobbing and sniffling, but he gently wiped away every tear that fell. I could hear the gentle smile in his voice as he continued.

"Don't cry for me, it is well beyond my time. None of us live forever."

_He_ was trying to comfort _me_. Somehow that wrenched my heart worse, and my grip on his hand tightened - as if I could keep him here and alive if I didn't let go of him.

His comforting words must have had some effect - how, I couldn't imagine; but a strange calm enveloped me and my sobs gradually tapered off. He wasn't _leaving_ me. Not like my parents had done.

Swallowing hard, I opened my eyes and tried without success to bring my vision into focus. Almost immediately I gave up. I could make out blurry shapes and distorted colors; other than that, I was blind.

"I know," I choked out in a voice that refused to cooperate. "It's just... hard," I explained lamely. "I think, um..." I tried bravely to give a wobbly smile in his direction. "I think the roses will miss you the most. I'll... I'll take care of them for you." A surge of tears rushed to my throat and disrupted anything else I wanted to say, and I sank to my knees at his bedside, still clinging to his hand.

As if from far away, I heard his comforting voice. "I know you will, dear. I know you will..."

I felt his warm hand patting mine, and then there was a shift in my Danger Sense: A welcoming recognition from the Professor and a second presence in the room. I curbed my tears and swallowed down any sobs or sniffles that might have come after it, then turned my head slightly and gazed up at the newcomer - a dark-haired man dressed in well-worn jeans, a black leather jacket, and red sunglasses. I kept my gaze soft to avoid the impression of staring at him, but I didn't try to smile. I couldn't.

"Scott, welcome back," said the Professor. "I'm in the middle of something though..."

I lowered my head slightly when Xavier indicated me, curled up by his bedside and clutching his hand like a child. I was suddenly grateful that the inhabitants of this world weren't as concerned with decorum and mannerly conduct as Narnians were, but that was only scant comfort to my shattered pride.

"Yeah." The fellow I knew to be Scott Summers shrugged casually and looked off to one side. "Just wanted to let you know I was back."

"I understand; it's good to see you. We will talk later."

Scott nodded to both of us, and I briefly felt his gaze on me from behind ruby-tinted lenses. "I'll be down in the garage if anyone needs me."

Scott turned and plodded off in his black leather boots, and I listened to the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall. Then I felt Xavier's hand in my hair, stroking gently, I sighed deeply and tipped my head toward him.

"You shouldn't be sad at a time like this, dear," the Professor admonished me, and I brought my tearful gaze to his warm smile. "This is something that simply can't be helped. I like to look at death as a new beginning, the start of a new journey in life. I'm actually quite curious as to what awaits me."

His words and demeanor were soothing - and he was right. I nodded.

"Something... wonderful," I said softly. "My parents are already there... you'll have to meet them. You'll know them when you see them." I was perfectly confident of that. Taking his hand in mine, I brought it out of my hair and tenderly kissed his palm. "There are so many things I want you to know before you go," I whispered. "I think... I think I will tell you now."

And so I told him. Despite the guilt that weighed heavily on my conscience, despite my many uncertainties, I _had _to tell him. I had no more time to wait. And the Professor listened with such an expression of patient concern, like a father to a daughter, that my heart ached for my own lost father from so long ago.

I took a deep breath, then gazed steadily at Xavier. "I love this place, Professor. It's... home to me, of all the places I have been. Even Narnia is not... it's nothing like here. _You've_ made it home to me, Professor, and... there aren't words to tell you how grateful I am that you let me stay here, and that it's been a haven for a wandering soul like mine to, to come to... to come home to. I feel _safe_ here. And I see you in every single mutant I meet." I was beginning to smile. "I think of you as... as a sort of father to everyone, and I've needed one, so badly. Kurt Wagner and Tessa Niles have become like another set of parents to me - I love them so very much. Logan and Jean are my close friends. And now I have a best friend as well - a new student here who makes me feel like a foal again, you know?" I chuckled softly. "Her name is Alisha, codename Elastica. We... we met over Socrates."

We talked for hours - or rather I poured out my heart and Xavier listened. I told him of my friends at the mansion, of my parents and friends and former life in Narnia. I told him of Angel - though I kept the secret of my unrequited love buried away.

Then I told him of Pyro. His expression deepened with concern, but I was touched: The concern I saw in his eyes was for me. I could hardly bear to look at him. He squeezed my hand, and that was all.

The gray afternoon faded to an equally gray twilight, and I glanced out the window with a sigh. The time for our meeting had come to an end.

"You need to rest," I encouraged softly, climbing to my feet and keeping his wrinkled hand in mine. Despite his condition, the Professor's fingers were strong when they grasped mine.

"I will be fine, Violar," he assured me. "You must be careful. You live a dangerous life - but I do not think you would have it any other way. Your heart drives you to help others at any and all cost, but remember that you cannot help anyone if you yourself are beyond help. I do not necessarily refer to physical danger."

I bit my lip and stared at the floor, but I nodded. "You are very wise, Professor," I responded softly. "I will do my best to heed your advice."

A warm chuckle brought my attention back to his face, and I tilted my head, gazing at him curiously. My Danger Sense told me that he didn't entirely believe my words.

"There are some things you do not take to heart, dear," he said. I bit the inside of my cheek: The Professor was right. But his tone was not reprimanding. "Do whatever you must do. Only know that you are a part of this family now. And this family will take care of you and help you, when you are willing to let them."

I trembled at that, but I could only nod, clinging to his hand and forcing back the tears. He knew as well as I did that my course was set. In a few moments, I would descend the stairs and enter the MedLab and take my rightful place beside St. John - and walk him through to the end. The Professor was releasing me to do so, and he'd promised that I would have a home when it was all over.

I couldn't have told him what that meant to me, but he knew. He knew.

He smiled at me again and pressed my hand. "I shall miss you dearly."

Tears welled into my vision. Suddenly I released his hand, leaned over him, and wrapped me arms around him in a warm hug.

"Not as much as I'll miss you," I returned softly over his shoulder, and I felt him patting my back. "It'll all be alright, Professor. Thank you so much... for everything." With a deep sigh, I drew back and gazed intently at the Professor, memorizing his kind features. "I'm happy here," I murmured sincerely. "And I believe, deep down, that no matter what life brings me, that I'll always be happy here. That will give me strength... to persevere. Thank you..."

I gave him a kiss on the cheek and cleared my throat, offering him another smile. "Enjoy France, Professor. I've always wanted to see Paris in the spring."


	15. A Reason to Die

I took St. John home.

The cold New York breeze wafted through my hair, and the dark streets were quiet. My breath formed clouds of steam that dissipated in the night, and tears froze in the corners of my eyes. There were no cars, only street lamps casting eerie pools of yellow light on me and my trembling passenger as I slowly clopped down the sidewalk.

The future I'd seen when I'd kissed him the night before – the one ending in flames and darkness – was coming true. And fast.

There was no doubt about it: St. John had the Legacy Virus. Ororo Monroe had taken a blood sample – a horrific experience for all those involved. St. John had a violent fear of needles, he was barely in his right mind, and his powers were overactive. I'd had to punch him in the jaw and forcibly hold him down. His blue eyes had blazed red with hatred for me. I was alternately furious with him and devastated beyond grief.

Before we were through, half the MedLab had been scorched by fire, and the emergency sprinkler system drenched us all. But Storm managed to extract a syringe full of his blood, run the necessary tests, and confirm St. John's worst fears.

He was terminally ill. There was no cure for the Legacy Virus. It was highly contagious and vicious to its hosts, tearing them apart from the inside out and melting them down. He had a week to live, at best.

And so I put him on my broad palomino back and carried him out of the mansion he hated, taking us slowly along the road to St. John's dilapidated house. Neither of us said a word. The journey in the darkness, and even our forlorn destination, seemed a strangely fitting metaphor for my life now. There was nothing left but a long, silent journey through the night to a ghostly place where broken hearts and shattered dreams called home.

There were few people left to stare at us, but I no longer cared. I rubbed my hands to keep them warm. Somehow I hoped that the trip to his house would last forever. It lasted much longer than my first trip to the mansion, because I was slowly walking instead of galloping madly. I could no longer outrun death.

And I'd been running from it all my life. I swallowed at a knot in my throat.

Too soon, we found ourselves in St. John's tumbledown neighborhood. I crossed the street and raised my eyes to the dismal house St. John called home. My spirits deflated. Now that I was here, it was the beginning of the end in a far more tangible sense.

But I had to get St. John out of the cold. I climbed the steps and let us in through the unlocked door, which had been unlocked all day thanks to our hasty departure that morning. I nudged the door shut with a hind hoof and moved to the center of the dusty living room, ducking my head to avoid bumping the ceiling. Moonlight and shadow froze the scene, like something out of a dream.

For the first time since we'd left the mansion, I found my voice.

"Do you want to sleep on the couch?" I asked huskily. "I'll get more pillows and blankets for you, if I can find them..."

He slowly lifted his head from the back of my shoulder, as if the small effort took too much energy. "Sure…"

There were vague stirrings in my Danger Sense – things from St. John that were left unspoken. I didn't have the will to focus on them and sort them out. I was numb and cold inside, and I didn't care about anything anymore. The one thing I did feel, however, was dread: St. John expected me to leave him.

I glanced at him over my shoulder. I sensed he didn't like other people intruding into the dark corners of his life - maybe not even me. But last night, he'd let me in, just a little. And that counted for _something._

I was determined that it would count for something. I wasn't going anywhere.

I moved over to the couch and carefully buckled my forelimbs, bending my hind legs at almost the same time to ease him to couch level - an extremely difficult maneuver. My muscles tightened in protest and trembled under the strain. Then I twisted my upper body around and, with infinite gentleness, I half-lifted him from my back and settled him onto the couch. As gentle as I was, he still groaned and grimaced and panted – like a creature with a fatal wound on Narnia's battlefield.

My heavy centaur body collapsed on the floor. There was a blanket already there from the night before, and a hasty glance around revealed one of the pillows lying askew where it had fallen from... the pillow fight.

The sight of it caused a fresh bubble of tears, but I forced them back as I picked up Pyro's head and slid the pillow beneath him. My hand brushed over his dirty blond hair, and I bent over him briefly and kissed his forehead.

"Just rest," I told him. He nodded weakly, and I stood up - and crashed my head on the ceiling with shocking force. Stars exploded through my brain, and I staggered sideways.

"Ow," I muttered in annoyance, slapping my hand over my choker and shifting down to a much more manageable size. I paused to rub the knot forming in my hair, berating myself for forgetting the low ceiling, and I glanced down. I was still in my stockinged feet: My boots were in the corner, where I'd left them the night before.

Hollow echoes of laughter from our mop-and-broom spar seemed to come from every wall, and I ran a distressed hand through my hair before going to the kitchen. I stopped in my tracks and my eyes widened.

"Ugh," I murmured, sweeping an incredulous gaze over the ruin. Empty bags, crumpled napkins, empty milk cartons, and mountains of other garbage littered the counters. There were dirty dishes everywhere: Some of the plates had mold growing on ancient particles of indefinable foods. It was one of the most disgusting things I'd ever seen. The faintly unhealthy smell assaulted my sensitive nature and made me feel sick.

Bravely I marched deeper into the kitchen and opened random cupboards until, in one of them, I found one lone glass hiding in the corner. It was a little dusty, as if it had been there a long while, but at least it was clean. I brought it out, shoved grimy plates aside in the sink and rinsed the glass, then filled it with fresh water. This I brought out and set on the nearby bookshelf, glancing intently at Pyro as I passed.

He was lying perfectly still with his eyes closed, but at least he was breathing. Whether he was aware of me or not, I don't know.

Then, it was up the creaky flight of stairs. There must have been a linen closet up there, or so I guessed, since St. John had gone up there and returned with pillows the night before...

"_Helpless puppy is now a rabid dog."_

Another beautiful memory. I shoved away the thought of him leaping youthfully down the stairs and cocking the pillow, a bright grin on his normally sullen face as he challenged me like it was a fight to the death - and then hit me with such delicate force, as if I were made of porcelain. I bit my lip hard, feeling an inch away from a complete breakdown, and forced myself down the hall. I began opening doors and peering inside: A bathroom, an office room stuffed full of junk and dust, and finally the linen closet.

I pulled out a limp pillow and promptly sneezed. It was dusty. And it sapped the last of my strength. I lost it.

Rolling so that my back was against the wall, I hugged the pillow close and cried into the smothering material. I couldn't do this. My hands clenched into fists and tears poured into the pillow. I was only a centaur. By the mane of Aslan, I couldn't do this.

I wept and sniffled until my sinuses started to tickle ominously. There was already a wet patch on the pillow from my tears.

_Oh well... this one can be mine. It's going to be soaked through and probably mildewed before I'm done with it anyway..._

I stared hopelessly at the cobwebbed ceiling and drew deep, cleansing breaths of musty air until my sobs were quiet and my soul went numb.

I turned back to my excavation of the closet. There was only one extra blanket, which I wisely did not hold anywhere close to my face. It had probably been there longer than the pillow. But I needed more blankets, and there was just one other place I could think to look: St. John's bedroom.

Casting a glance down the stairs (and wishing I could see the couch, which I couldn't), I took a deep breath and opened the door to the final room in the hall.

I paused for a moment, unwilling to enter at first. I felt like a trespasser, or like Belle stepping into the West Wing when she knew she wasn't supposed to. But I didn't have any options. I pushed open the door and slid inside.

I was rather pleasantly surprised, since the rest of the house had lowered my standards so greatly: The bedroom was obviously well lived in, but not disastrous to the point of total loss. There were unfolded clothes and a light layer of dust scattered over a few pieces of ordinary-looking furniture. I noticed a few notches in the wall and an absence of burn marks before I reminded myself that St. John was downstairs, waiting.

A moment later I trundled down the stairs, arms overflowing with blankets and pillows and the quilt from his bed. I balanced the huge pile and counted down the stairs as I carefully descended. Once I was safe on flat ground, I turned my body sideways so I could peer around the cushiony wall at the resting mutant. Then I disappeared behind it again and, like the Pillow Monster That Came From Upstairs, I advanced and dropped all my plunder with a great _FLOOF _beside the couch.

St. John didn't open his eyes.

"Whew," I whispered without any real feeling. I was almost beyond feeling, and I was _so_ tired. I pulled his quilt out of the pile and tucked it carefully into the couch around his body, leaving no seams for heat to escape. Then I took his own pillow from the other side of the room and picked up his first pillow, with his head still on it, and stuffed the second one underneath. I checked to make sure the pillow stack was just the perfect height and wouldn't strain his neck while he rested. It seemed alright: The pillows were pretty worn and deflated from years of use without replacement.

He never stirred while I worked.

I set up a makeshift bed for myself on the floor beside him: A blanket over the dirty carpet, then a pillow, and another blanket to cover up with when I was ready. And I wasn't yet. There were a few things I wanted to do first.

Kneeling beside St. John, I brushed the backs of my fingers over his cheek to get his attention. He jumped awake as if startled, but at least his blue eyes focused on me.

"Hey," I said softly. "Are you thirsty?"

He looked weak and mulish. "A little," he muttered.

"Good," I said softly, brushing my fingers over his cheek with a delicate touch. "I... think you should drink as much as possible. So whenever you're thirsty, just ask."

I rose and plucked the glass from the bookshelf, then knelt at his side and tilted the glass to his lips. I slid my hand behind his head and lifted him enough that he could sip a little. His eyes drifted closed, and his swallows were so slow and difficult that I had to ration the water to a trickle.

Watching St. John twisted my heart. He was so young – so very young. There were ten thousand things I wanted to tell him, but with so little time left, most of those things were of no importance anymore. I whittled them away until…

"St. John," I said presently. Then I bit my lip, drew the glass away momentarily, and his tired eyes met mine. "There are two things that are vitally important to know about me."

A faint semblance of curiosity touched his expression. "What is it?"

I set aside the glass and studied his near shoulder for a moment, gathering my courage. Then I looked up at him, and very gently, I smoothed my fingers through the blond hair near his forehead.

"My real name is Zephina," I said quietly. "Zephina... Freeheart... Wildfire. That's the name I was given at birth, and the name I grew up with. Violar... was my mother." I searched his eyes, wondering if he was comprehending any of this. "I kept her name to keep her alive, to keep her memory alive. In Narnia, all they know is that Violar still exists, and Zephina does not. It's as if Zephina is the one who died, not Violar. Violar still lives... in my heart."

He smiled softly. "Zephina. That's a beautiful name." A dry chuckle escaped him. "And I like the last name too."

Relief poured through me, and I flushed and looked down with a little smile. "Thank you," I murmured, almost shyly. It suddenly meant a lot to me that he found my name beautiful. I was grateful also that the irony of my last name hadn't escaped him.

But there was more. I took a deep breath.

"The second thing you should know about me is that... I love you, St. John."

So much emotion poured through those words that my face tightened and another tear fell free. I glanced aside long enough to brush it away, and a powerful tremor went through my body. I was so frightened. What had I done?

My heart began to pound. I lifted a vulnerable and wary gaze to him, and what I saw was enough to stop my heart.

St. John's smile melted away, replaced by a look of shock – then disbelief. My Danger Sense roiled with dark emotion and wounded pride. He blinked, struggling against himself, and a ripple appeared in his damp forehead.

"Violar," he rasped, "I…"

He trailed off. He looked at me – just looked at me. The words didn't come.

A wave of panic swept over me, and my fingers flew to his lips and stopped him. "Don't," I urged with a quick shake of my head. "Don't say anything."

I was terrified – just as terrified that he would say he loved me in return as I was to risk finding out that he had no real feelings for me at all. Abruptly I realized that I was trembling all over, but I didn't move: The look in his eyes held me captive. I gazed back at him with equal intensity, trying to hide my fears.

I was going to hurt worse now that I'd admitted how I felt. It'd have been far easier to have not told him... and then perhaps, when he was gone, I could've pretended that nothing ever happened.

Except something did happen, and that something had changed my life. If I hadn't told him, I'd have regretted it forever. I knew that with utter certainty.

For a moment St. John fought with himself, and then he gave in. The struggle in my Danger Sense quieted, and I could breathe again. He gave the slightest nod.

"Just promise me one thing," I whispered hoarsely, suddenly desperate. "St. John, please... don't ever leave me. After... after this," I pleaded, unable to say the word "death" connected with St. John, "when you get to Aslan's Country, please... come back and comfort me. Please," I begged him, another tear adding to the silent appeal in my eyes.

There was a soft rustle in the quilt, and his weak hand lifted to caress my cheek. It was clammy and warm. My features twitched as I battled back tears, and I didn't move beneath his touch.

"Violar," he replied with surprising firmness, his eyes searching deeply into mine. "Death's not going to keep me away from you."

I gasped. Suddenly I clasped his hand in mine and let the tears fall. We stayed like that for a long time, the moonlit silence punctuated occasionally by my rough-edged sobs.

I didn't care if he loved me in return - or if he loved me as much as I loved him. I desperately wanted to give him this gift - to give him something he'd never had before in the darkness of his lost, lonely life. I wanted him to have my heart. And when he was gone, he was going to take that with him.

Maybe, like my mother, I too would wander the wintry forests of New York in a daze, and quietly lie down beneath the leafless trees and give my soul to forever's sleep. St. John had given me a shred of hope, but he had no more to offer.

Trembling, I waited for a lull in the storm. Then I swallowed hard and looked up at him, and some of the fear inside of me was missing.

"Tell me," I whispered achingly. "Does it hurt when I... touch you?"

His blue eyes opened more fully and fixed steadily on me. "No."

I caught my breath and glanced away as tingles rushed up my spine. Just for a moment, he'd sounded almost... normal. Like he had last night. I felt his eyes on mine, but I couldn't meet them - not yet. I was afraid that he'd mistaken my meaning… that he'd ask me for more than I could give.

If he did, I wouldn't have the strength to say no – any more than I'd had the strength to retreat from his impulsive kiss. My quailing heart really was failing.

There would be no more questions.

I looked up and was immediately lost in his eyes. They shone like blue ice. For a moment, at least, they were bright and comprehending – even if they were a little tired. One last tear made slow progress down my cheek as I gazed back at him, and something in the way he looked at me... settled me. Calmed me. Made the prospect of what was to come just a little less painful.

"St. John," I breathed.

His fingers twitched at the sound of his name, and his ice blue eyes burst into flame.

Rising to my knees, I leaned over him and took his face gently between my hands, and I pressed my lips to his - kissing him softly, at first, and then in desperation, as if to impart to him some of my own strength. Not my emotional strength, but my physical strength. I didn't have much to give as far as emotional strength went, except for one thing: Love. I loved him. And that I poured into his lips without reserve.

He kissed me with equal intensity, as if he never wanted to end this moment. He lifted his head off the pillow, and I slid my hand to the back of his neck so he wouldn't strain his weakened muscles. A muffled cry caught in my throat, and I pressed harder into his lips. His heated breath mingled with mine.

I could feel him wanting to give more than he was able to, and it hurt me that he couldn't - because I knew it hurt his pride, and it hurt some part of his heart.

Reluctantly I drew away, very slowly, then kissed him on the lips a second time in retreat. When he tried to return that kiss, I felt as if the heat of his mutation had fused into my heart.

"Sleep," I whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

He nodded with a weary smile and closed his eyes.

I reached back for my blue blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. Then I leaned over him again to brush her fingers over his damp cheek and through his soft hair.

And then I began to sing to him, very quietly, a lullaby my mother had given me when I was just a foal:

_The hills have fallen_

_Sound asleep,_

_The distant forests_

_Are dreaming deep._

_Shadows conquer_

_Field and plain,_

_Over dale and stream_

_The darkness reigns._

_But do you, little one,_

_Hide beneath my wing,_

_Nestle close and listen_

_To the song of love I sing._

_A flower in your winter_

_I'll always be,_

_A pathway from the woodlands_

_To the shining sea._

_But adventures, let them_

_Wait until tomorrow,_

_When the sun reveals_

_The road you are to follow._

St. John was already lost in a deep, dark sleep.

I hovered over him, gazing at his young face. Promises formed in my mind: Tomorrow, I wouldn't let him wallow. There was no question that _I_ would cry that week. I could cry a lot. But I would _not_ cry in front of him if I could help it. For his sake, I was going to be strong. I might even tease him. I'd make him smile as much as possible, and hold his hand, or sit beside him and brush my fingers over his face and hair, keeping my word to make up for lost time - even though I only had one week to accomplish the impossible.

I was going to lose him - and that devastated me. But this was no time to be selfish. He _needed_ me.

_Let him lean on me, emotionally_, I decided. _There will be time enough to mourn later. I just have to walk him through this - to walk him home._

And when he was too weak to walk, I would pick him up in my arms and carry him. That was my job – to help him through the transition between this life and the next.

Lifting my eyes to the ceiling, I breathed a little sigh and was silent, my lips tightly pursed and my jaw clenched. I was in so much pain. I wanted to lash out. I blamed Aslan for this. It wasn't the first time he'd done this to me and it probably wouldn't be the last, and that infuriated me. Worst of all, I didn't understand _why_.

That's all I wanted to know: The reason _why_.

Not knowing why was... awful. It tested the limits of blind faith and my fragile trust, which I was slow to give anyone. I knew Aslan was asking both of me now - not demanding it, but asking it of me.

"I don't know if I can give it to you," I whispered to the darkness. _Because if I do, I don't know if I'll even survive. I need my anger to keep me alive._

I lowered my eyes to St. John's face. Abruptly I was struck by how handsome he really was. He looked young and boyish, yet not childish. I assessed every feature and found nothing wanting: His soft golden-brown eyebrows were perfect, and he had thick eyelashes that were neither too long nor too short. The blue eyes beneath his closed lids were... beautiful. Blue was my favorite color, as it always had been; and when his eyes lit up with happiness, they were like sapphires on fire. I'd never seen anything like them. He had a nice nose, too, I thought with a slight smile. It ran smoothly down from his forehead and it didn't have a single defect that I could see. His mouth was rather expressive: I loved it best when he was smiling, of course, but even when he wasn't, I couldn't help finding it... cute.

Abruptly I blushed and bit my lip. Good thing St. John wasn't awake now; I wondered what he would say if he knew how I gazed at him as if I were a poet admiring a painter's masterpiece.

"You outdid yourself on this one, Aslan," I whispered, brushing a few stray wisps of hair off his forehead. Then my insides collapsed. "No wonder you want him back so badly..."

Through tear-stained vision, I watched over him a little longer - but how much longer, I wasn't entirely certain. It could have been hours. I wrestled violently with myself, and my past, and my stubborn nature, and my pride, and the way I held on to transient things because I was too afraid to let them go, too afraid of being alone...

That was it. I, Zephina Wildfire, was afraid of being alone.

I fought and wrestled and battled and argued and mentally railed until, in utter exhaustion, even my thoughts fell silent. A void of emptiness settled over me. And still St. John slept on, the steady rise and fall of his chest letting me know that he was still with me for the time being.

Slowly my fists unclenched. I dropped my head in defeat, and in silence I surrendered.

_He's all yours, Aslan. Please... please, take good care of him for me. I love him like you and he, and maybe I, will never know._

The tenacity of my own prayer gave me pause. Maybe this was my destiny – to love St. John through this. Maybe that's why Angel didn't give me a second glance. Everything from the past few months was, at long last, starting to make sense, though the future made no sense at all. And I was too tired to contemplate it any further.

Pressing a soft kiss to St. John's forehead, I curled up on my makeshift bed beside the couch, listening intently to his soft breathing. That sound was like a lifeline, and I clung to it.

I drifted into an uneasy sleep. Anytime there was so much as the slightest hitch in his rhythmic breathing, I sat up and studied him through sleepy, half-closed eyes. Then I dropped to my pillow again, rolled into the blanket, and fell into a sleep drugged with grief and exhaustion.


	16. Sunrise, Sunrise

The next morning, I awakened to find a pale peach dawn pouring through the window. I yawned and stretched, then rolled onto my back and scowled up at the dirty ceiling.

How could the sun rise on a day like today?

A distant motor roared to life. One of the next door neighbors was about to mow his lawn. Two dogs barked fiercely at each other. An occasional car hummed down the street. A horn honked and I heard a muffled shout – a friendly greeting, as far as I could tell. It was answered by a deep, male laugh and a return shout. Judging from the few words I caught, it was an invitation to come over and watch "the ballgame."

I went on staring at the ceiling. Outside, it was all maddeningly normal. But right here, in this house – in this living room – the world was coming to an end.

St. John stirred, and the rhythm of his breathing increased. I pushed myself up and stared at him. His face reflected torment as he sweated and struggled: He was having a nightmare. Suddenly my gaze darted to his wrist – and the cigarette lighter strapped there.

Biting my lip, I glanced warily at his face. Then, slowly and carefully, I removed the strap and lighter and stood up, looking for a place to hide them. The dusty bookcase in the corner seemed like the best idea, and I went over and pulled out a book – a book about wildfires, I noticed – and slid the lighter behind it.

"What are you doing?"

I froze. My blood ran cold and my Danger Sense shivered. Slowly I turned around to meet the frigid gaze of St. John.

I mustered what I hoped was a casual smile. "Good morning to you too," I greeted him wryly. I waved at the bookcase. "You have quite a collection here."

St. John didn't so much as blink. "What did you do with my lighter?" He held up his wrist.

I clasped my hands, keeping my features calm. "You were having a nightmare. I didn't want you to hurt yourself by accident."

He scoffed. "I can't be hurt by fire. I told you that."

"Alright then, I didn't want you to hurt me."

His eyebrows drew lower. "Give it back."

I suddenly matched his glare. "Don't you use that tone with me, St. John Allerdyce," I snapped.

"You sound just like my mom."

"Good, because you need a mother."

He huffed at me, but something in his blue eyes changed – for the better, I thought. He seemed oddly amused with my temperamental outburst. He looked away and brushed a weary hand over his forehead. I noticed a couple of faint sores forming just below his hairline.

"Can I please have my lighter," he grumbled. It wasn't exactly a question, but he sounded more reasonable.

I gentled to match him. "Why?"

"Because…" he grimaced. "It doesn't feel… right… to be without it."

I could understand that, and I felt my body relax a little. "Do you remember what you did to the MedLab, St. John?"

His ice blue eyes opened fully and fixed on me. "I won't hurt you, Violar."

That gave me pause. St. John was very serious. A corner of the iron armor encasing my heart melted.

"I know you won't _try_ to hurt me," I replied carefully. "But things might get out of your control, and then—"

He interrupted me. "I won't hurt you, Violar."

I hesitated, weighing my good sense against St. John's wishes. Then, slowly, I turned around and dug the lighter out from behind the books. Praying I hadn't made a terrible mistake, I slowly approached the couch and held it out to him.

He snatched it and had it wrapped around his wrist in the blink of an eye. I frowned at him.

"Watch your attitude," I growled. Then, before he could answer, "Are you hungry?"

The mutant boy glowered at me. "Not really."

"Well, I'm hungry," I countered, heading for the kitchen. "Might as well make you something while I'm at it, hmm?"

I disappeared through the doorway and left him in the living room to think that over. The morning was hardly off to an idyllic start, and entering such a disaster of a kitchen further darkened my mood. Cockroaches skipped gleefully over the mess and lines of ants carried off crumbs through cracks in the wall. The stale air was thick with the odors of spoiled milk, fermenting vegetables, and mould. Judging by all the paper plates mixed in with the unwashed ceramic ones, St. John had found ways around using the traditional soap and scrubber.

I would have to do something about this. But not now.

I bravely opened the pantry, hardly daring to hope I'd find anything at all. But I was lucky. Cans of pineapples, tamales, various kinds of beans, and soup sat on the shelves. A lot of dust had accumulated on and around those cans, so I surmised that they'd been around for awhile. Either some well-meaning soul had dropped off a lot of food for St. John at one time, or he'd robbed a street person's grocery cart and put the whole stash in his pantry. There was no way to know.

Canned soup seemed like a good idea. I rummaged through his cupboards, making a face at all the mouse droppings, until I found a suitable glass bowl. I put it in the sink and ran scalding hot water into it while I searched the place for soap.

_Does St. John even own soap?_

I couldn't help wondering. I finally came up with a grimy bottle of dish soap, and I washed the bowl and two spoons three times each. Miraculously I came across the can opener, poured the cheddar broccoli soup into the bowl, and opened the microwave.

At once I groaned and stepped back, wrinkling my nose. "Good lion!"

It was the dirtiest microwave I'd never seen. Reddish-brown grime coated the inside of it, and it smelled strongly of overheated food. I hesitated, completely sickened by the unsanitary conditions, until my growling stomach got the best of me. I steeled my nerves, stuck the bowl in the microwave, and set it for two minutes.

I had no other choice, unless I wanted to starve.

Two minutes of waiting for breakfast to cook gave my mind time to work. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, I assessed myself: I was cranky, emotionally overwrought, heartsick, and cranky again. And sad… sad beyond comprehension. Despite all of St. John's shortcomings, he had so much potential. And very little – if any – of it was going to be realized, because in a week, his life was going to be snuffed out.

Why didn't Aslan let me run across St. John sooner?

Logic told me that I should trust Aslan's timing. He didn't make mistakes. But at that moment, I didn't buy into that at all. This whole blasted thing was a mistake. Either I should've met him earlier or not crossed paths with him at all.

My dreams were being snuffed out right along with St. John, and last night, I'd dared to imagine that I could have a different life – a life that was rich and meaningful, devoted to helping St. John turn himself around, where I could escape the shadow of an Angel.

I gritted my teeth. It had been an awful risk on my part, letting go of Angel in order to kiss St. John and embrace his heart. A large part of me regretted that decision. I didn't know whether it was the right thing to do – or the wrong one. I hadn't even had time to think about it. I had chosen the path impulsively, not knowing that I'd squeezed through a tiny open window of opportunity, and now I was committed to seeing it through… to the end.

The microwave chime made me jump.

Gingerly I pulled open the door, recoiling in disgust at the thicker smell of ancient, heated particles of food. Once I had my queasiness under control, I extracted the bowl of soup, found two Styrofoam bowls in a Wal-Mart bag on the table, and marched into the living room with a pleasant smile.

St. John was lying in exactly the same position I'd left him. And he was moodily clicking his lighter.

"Viola! Breakfast is served," I announced cheerfully, sweeping into his field of vision. Abruptly I paused and looked around. "Of course, I suppose I'll need something to serve your breakfast _on._"

St. John never even looked at me. "There's a TV tray by the coat rack."

"Exactly where I would have looked for it," I remarked sarcastically. With regret, I set the bowl of soup and the makeshift place settings on St. John's crummy La-Z-Boy and went off to retrieve the wooden tray.

In a few moments, the tray was set up between us and breakfast was set out. I couldn't help contrasting these meager preparations to the grandeur of Cair Paravel. As a centaur living alone in the wild, I'd had more elaborate meals than this. And certainly cleaner ones – even in sand and dirt.

I tugged the La-Z-Boy close to St. John's couch and offered him a warm smile as I sat down. "Thank Aslan I found this food. Amen."

He gave a wry smile, and I was glad to see it. I poured the soup into the two bowls.

"I went on one of those astronomical expeditions in your kitchen," I told him, struggling to remember the term used on a Discovery Channel program I'd recently watched with Alisha.

St. John looked puzzled. "Oh… you mean… archeological expeditions?"

I paused in my preparations to give him a warm smile. "Yes, one of those things. In your kitchen."

He quirked an eyebrow at me, and the lighter ceased clicking. "Did you find any dinosaur bones?"

I laughed suddenly at his humor and grinned. "No. I found these." I held up the silver spoons and pretended to study them, hard. "My guess is third-century, um, China," I went on, turning the spoons back and forth in the morning light. "We dug them out from the remains of a barbarian camp."

He couldn't help the chuckle that tore from his stubborn throat, and I couldn't contain a laugh. I choked it back down and continued with mock solemnity, "I discovered evidence of many more artifacts – perhaps hundreds of them. But it could take our team weeks to dig them out."

He laughed at that. I forced down a giggle and gave him what was supposed to be a stern frown. "Don't laugh, sir. It's a dangerous mission. We have to watch out for…" I glanced left and right, then leaned close and lowered my voice. "Killer carpets."

St. John laughed harder, and this time I joined him wholeheartedly. Mirth ripped down the barriers I'd placed around my heart, and in a moment I had to wipe away tears that were only partially caused by hilarity. I had to be careful, or St. John would see me crying.

St. John laughed until he was weak, which didn't take long; but it was so good to see him smiling again. He had such a dashing smile, when he decided to use it, and I could hardly bear the sight of it. I brushed the back of my hand over my damp cheeks and tried to conceal my sniffles.

"Try the soup, St. John," I encouraged more softly. "Compliments of the archeology team."

He tried to push himself up, but he was weak and slow and he grimaced. I hopped off the La-Z-Boy and put my arms around him to help him out, and a little of his scowl returned.

"I can do it," he grumbled stiffly.

But I put my arms around him and assisted him anyway. "Not to worry. The archeology team is on lunch break."

The corners of his mouth twitched, and he made no further protest. I gently situated him against the back of the couch, propping his weary body on pillows. Then I returned to my chair and sat across from him, mustering my best smile.

"Eat up, before it gets cold," I encouraged.

St. John huffed as he took up his spoon. "Not like I'm worried about that. I can always heat it up again." His glance flicked meaningfully to his lighter.

I shook my head, still smiling. "Bad idea. Not that I've ever seen it before, but I doubt fire would be real nice on Styrofoam."

A strange light leapt into his blue eyes, and I froze. St. John was actually considering putting fire to Styrofoam – just to try it out and see what would happen. I'd said exactly the wrong thing, and I knew it.

"Not that… I'm curious to find out," I added hastily.

"Speak for yourself," he muttered, his oddly bright gaze on his soup bowl.

I gulped. "St. John, please." My voice was a rough-edged plea. "Don't. Just… let's just eat breakfast in peace, alright?"

The light in his eyes reluctantly clouded, and he looked up at me. Abruptly he looked irritated, and he grabbed his spoon to take a careless bite.

We were silent. I ate twice as quickly as St. John did. I would have offered to help him, but he had so much pride, and I resolved to wait a little while and see if he could manage on his own. I had my own emotional turmoil to struggle with, anyway.

St. John had barely taken a dozen spoonfuls before he pushed his bowl away with a listless sigh. He sank into the back of the couch.

"I have… a question."

That surprised me. I glanced at my own bowl, which was still half-full of soup, and I briefly debated whether to keep eating. My hand was trembling on the spoon.

"Um… alright. Go ahead, St. John." I opted to continue, just to give me something to do, but I gazed at the mutant boy with interest.

"Your name. Would you rather be called Violar or Zephina?"

The breath caught in my throat. I almost couldn't swallow down a spoonful of soup. Moisture sprang to my eyes, and it was a battle to remain calm.

"Ah… well," I stammered, blinking and not quite sure how to answer. It caught me off guard. One moment, St. John acted like he didn't care at all. The next, he remembered a conversation from the night before, when I'd been half convinced he hadn't paid attention to. I could never predict St. John.

"Well, um, what… which name do you prefer?" I wondered.

He thought that over. The weight of consideration he was giving the issue touched my heart, and my spirit warmed.

"They're both nice," he said finally. "I don't know. What do most people call you?"

"Violar, because I usually don't tell anyone about my real name."

A flash of surprise ignited in his blue eyes, and then he looked away, disguising his feelings behind his habitually sullen mask. "I like your last name," he remarked.

I smiled softly and set down my bowl. "I thought you would. I'm rather fond of it myself. Fire is… very beautiful."

His eyes came back to me, and they were less guarded than they'd been before. So were mine. Hesitantly I placed my hand on the TV tray, and his hand gently covered it. The magic of the moment wrapped around both of us, and emotion surged inside of me. I didn't want to move.

"Call me Zephina," I invited softly. "I so rarely hear it. When I do hear it, it feels… special."

St. John's blue eyes burned deep into mine. "You should have a special name, Zephina. You _are _special."

I lowered my head and looked at his hand covering mine. It was a young and masculine hand, but it was devoid of strength – just resting limply atop mine. Three or four sores had appeared on the back of it.

My heart twisted. This was so cruel… so cruel. A knot lodged in my throat, and I couldn't even answer him. I just nodded and squeezed my eyes shut, as if to block out the future.

His hand left mine. The warmth of his touch slowly cooled on my skin, and I looked up at him with tears in my eyes.

"You're special too, St. John," I whispered. "You don't even know how special you are. I'm so glad we met."

My words struck a nerve. I could tell because his expression grew a little more vulnerable. Then he looked away, and he sobered deeply.

"Violar… Zephina. You don't know what you're talking about."

I swallowed hard. "Why do you say that, St. John?"

"Because…" He hesitated, struggling for words. "I'm not the person you think I am."

I tilted my head. "What kind of person are you?"

He closed his eyes. "A bad one."

With a soft gasp, I left my chair and came around the TV tray to sit down carefully beside him. I briefly touched his shoulder, then took his hand in mine.

"If you believe that, then you're not the person you think you are either, St. John," I responded quietly, looking directly at him. He avoided my gaze. "I remember everything you've done since I met you on that street corner. I was right there for all of it. I've heard stories about what you're capable of. I am neither blind nor foolish."

I bit my lip; that last fact was debatable. I pressed on in spite of it.

"Those are all the things you've done, but I've seen beyond that. I've seen the kind of man you can be, right here." Reaching over, I tapped his heart. "What I see," I went on, my voice cracking, "is very beautiful. I see the man Aslan created you to be… and…" I sniffled. "You've been so very kind to me. I don't want you to go away…"

His fingers gave mine a weary squeeze. He didn't answer – I don't think he could. I heard him clear his throat twice.

"Zephina… I told you that death won't keep me away from you. And it won't."

I nodded softly. "That is… a comfort."

He pressed his fingers into mine again, then let go. "What I need right now is… sleep."

I nodded again and rose with my back to St. John. The emotion of the moment had gotten to be too much for him, and in a lot of ways, I couldn't blame him for shutting it all down when he did. I forced the lid onto my feelings and turned around with a little smile. I hoped the smile didn't look as sad as it felt to wear.

"Are you thirsty, St. John? Would you like more water?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? It won't take but a moment to fetch."

"I'm sure."

"Alright. Do you want to cover up with a blanket?"

He shook his head. "I'm hot."

I smiled sympathetically, then pulled the quilt back from the couch. "Do you want a cold cloth on your forehead? It might feel nice."

St. John made a face, and I dropped the subject. His pride was interfering with my ability to comfort him, and he didn't know how badly I needed to do something for him. Anything. Even little things. He wasn't perceptive to other people – because he'd never practiced the fine art of selflessness. Because the world had turned its back on St. John and forced him to look out for himself, he'd never had that opportunity.

Thanks to the Legacy Virus, he never would have that opportunity.

"Let me help you lie down, St. John." I didn't give him the option, and before he could protest, I was already encircling him with my arms and leaning him gently into the pillows – and asking him another question at the same time. "Does it still hurt when I touch you?"

St. John grimaced. "Yeah. But it's not so bad."

"Was it worse yesterday?"

He hesitated. "A little."

I knew it was a lie. My heart warmed: He wanted my touch badly enough to brave the hypersensitivity of his nerve endings. Storm had tried to explain it to me, and most of it went over my head – in part because I wasn't from this world in the first place, and in part because I was too dazed with grief to take anything in.

Leaning down, I softly kissed his lips – intending to stay for only a moment. His head came off the pillow to press deeper into the kiss, and with a low groan I dropped to my knees and kissed him fiercely until I'd pushed him back into the pillows and crushed his lips against mine.

By the time I broke away, we were both breathing heavily. St. John could hardly keep his eyes open, but his irises had deepened to a rich shade of smoky blue.

"Now," I said huskily, attempting to smile, "you get some sleep. My archeology team finished its lunch break, and we have a lot of excavating to do."

That made him smile. "Going to find more forks?"

I climbed to my feet, ruffling his hair gently. "No," I replied mischievously. "Dinosaur bones. They have to be in there somewhere."

St. John gave a weary laugh, and I bit my lip over a broader smile. He was fun to tease. I was going to miss it.

My heart lurched, and I clenched my jaw. _Later. You can cry later, Violar._

"Wish me luck," I whispered.

But he was already asleep.

My smile faded as regret and anguish flooded over me. His sweetly sleeping form blurred beneath a film of tears. For the thousandth time, I lamented inwardly that it was too soon… all too soon.

I moved into the kitchen, leaving St. John and my gloomy thoughts in the living room. All disaster cleanup efforts need a starting point; I immediately chose taking out the garbage first. But did St. John even own a roll of black garbage bags?

I peeked under the sink, and miracle of miracles, I found some. Maybe the same source that provided such a diverse array of canned goods for his pantry was responsible for garbage bags, too.

It was too quiet in the kitchen, and my thoughts threatened to intrude during my work. I couldn't allow that to happen. In desperation, I looked around and discovered, to my surprise and delight, a clock radio atop the microwave, surrounded by empty cartons that had – once upon a time – contained Chinese food.

My friend Alisha had been good enough to show me how clock radios worked. I swept aside the Chinese food containers and studied the clock's various knobs and buttons until I found one marked "radio." Experimentally I pressed it.

Loud, angry rock music blasted me in the face.

With a yelp of shock, I staggered backwards into the counter – then lunged forward and grabbed the clock radio, pressing random buttons like mad. The cacophony of music got even louder. The alarm went off and added its rhythmic blares to the chaos.

_Where's the darned off button? Does this thing HAVE an off button?_

In desperation, I shoved aside the clock and grabbed the cord, yanking it from the electrical socket. Blessed silence filled the kitchen.

I gasped with relief and sagged against the counter. Once my senses had marginally recovered from the onslaught, I darted into the doorway and peered into the living room. Somehow St. John had slept through all the noise.

Breathing another sigh of relief, I made my way back to the clock radio and glared at it. Technology and I did _not_ get along.

"I'll have you figured out, if it's the last thing I do," I growled. Picking up the alarm clock, I made an even more careful study of the buttons and dials. The wheel on the side was marked "volume," and another button seemed to indicate that it would change radio stations for me. I liked that idea.

Cautiously I plugged the clock radio in again, then squeezed my eyes shut and hit the radio button. The music came on, louder than ever, and I scrambled for the volume dial. The noise level mercifully dropped to a whisper. A breath hissed from my lungs.

"Thank Aslan," I gasped.

I went to work searching for a more palatable choice of music. The kind of rock where the lead singer was screaming and roaring his heart out like a beast straight from Ettinsmoor while the rest of the band played the life out of their instruments, as if in competition with one another for who could make the most noise, was simply _not_ my idea of music.

In all fairness, that could have been due to my Narnian upbringing. Before arriving in New York, my idea of a loud concert had been too many drummers and flute players in one spot.

I found a station that was playing a familiar song – "You Sang to Me" by Marc Anthony – and decided to stay there. I adjusted the volume to a comfortable level. After checking on St. John one more time to make sure he'd slept through my battle with the clock radio, I grabbed the trash bags and got to work.

The trash bags weren't small. They had to have been somewhere between 33 and 40-gallon bags. But I filled up three of them in a matter of minutes, pulling the red drawstrings tight and knotting them off as I piled them at one end of the kitchen. I found more dishes buried in all the rubble.

The song list on this radio station was a nice one. Marc Anthony's soulful piece was followed by Celine Dion's "Make You Happy" – which spoke strongly to me, as it reflected much of the way I felt towards St. John – and Chris Isaak's "Let Me Down Easy." I'd never heard that song before, and I couldn't help feeling amused at Chris' casual good-fellow charm and insecurity.

I recognized the distinctive voice of Norah Jones in the next song.

_Sunrise, sunrise_

_Looks like mornin' in your eyes_

_But the clock's held 9:15 for hours…_

I went on working, but I smiled. 9:15 – or September 15th – was my birthday.

_Sunrise, sunrise_

_Couldn't tempt us if it tried_

_'Cause the afternoon's already come and gone_

_And I said hoo, ooo, ooo, ooo,_

_To you..._

_Surprise, surprise_

_Couldn't find it in your eyes_

_But I'm sure it's written all over my face_

_Surprise, surprise_

_Never something I could hide_

_When I see we made it through another day…_

I tied off another garbage bag, a ripple forming over my brows. Making it through, one day at a time, was something St. John and I would be doing each morning from now on. Until the end.

I squelched my thoughts and tuned into the song again.

_Then I say hoo, ooo, ooo, ooo,_

_To you..._

_Now good night_

_Throw its cover down_

_On me again_

_Ooh and if I'm right_

_It's the only way_

_To bring me back…_

I dropped the new bag I'd been filling and stared at the clock. "What did you say?" I asked aloud, incredulous.

I waded through the mess on the floor until I stood in front of the clock, mentally backtracking. What had been the only way to bring her back?

Leaving everything, I dashed for the phone on St. John's wall and dialed the mansion number, which I'd memorized.

"Thank you for calling Xavier's Institute, this is Jean," said the female voice on the other end of the line.

"Jean, it's good to hear your voice. This is Violar."

"Violar! It's… is everything alright? Ororo told me about Pyro…"

"Yes, yes, everything's fine. Or at least as good as one can expect. By any chance, is Alisha Montrose around? It's a small thing, but I just wanted to ask her about a Norah Jones song. I think it's called Sunrise, Sunrise or something like that."

"Not a problem, Vi. I'll transfer you. By the way, if you need anything, just let me know. Okay?"

"I will, Jean. I'm grateful."

"You're welcome. Okay, hold on."

The line switched over to a classical composition with a cheerful mood. I didn't have to wait long before the music clicked off.

"Hello? Violar?"

"Alisha, yes, it's me. How are you?"

"Me?" Alisha nearly squeaked. "That's the _last_ question you should be asking! I'm fine. How's Pyro?"

"St. John is sleeping," I replied with a sigh. "His condition is stable, for now. But I heard a song on the radio, and I feel like there's a clue in it for me. Can you help me find it?"

"I'll do my best. One sec."

There was a pause on the line.

"Okay, I'm back. I have my Powerbook in front of me and my ITunes open. Do you know the name of the artist and the song title?"

I told her.

"Oh, you mean Sunrise. Norah Jones is a good one, isn't she? Now tell me if this is the right piece of music, Vi."

She let music filter into the line. I'd barely heard five seconds of it before I said, "That's the one, Alisha. Can you tell me what the lyrics are?"

"Yeah. Let me just pull up a website here. Hey, by the way, do you need anything at Pyro's house? You know, like supplies or food or anything like that?"

For a moment I was caught speechless. It hadn't even occurred to me to ask Alisha for supplies.

"Oh, ah, actually that would be nice," I replied, swallowing hard before my voice could crack. "If it's… not an inconvenience."

"Aww, it's nothing. Okay, here are the lyrics, and after I'm done reading them, I'll make a shopping list."

She read through the words to Sunrise. I understood the first and second verses perfectly, but the third – which held the key to escaping my predicament alive – eluded me completely.

"Maybe it isn't supposed to make sense," offered Alisha helpfully. "I mean, there are, like, lots of songs out there with lyrics that make no sense. You know the group America?"

"Er, which American group?"

"No, the group America." Alisha stifled a giggle. "There's actually a band called America, Vi."

"Oh, I see."

"They have a bunch of songs with lyrics that make no sense at all. Like, one of my favorites is Ventura Highway." She broke into song. "'Cause the free wind is blowing through your hair, and the days surround your daylight there; seasons crying no despair; alligator lizards in the air…' It's such a beautiful song," she explained. "But it's all nonsense strung together. That's just one of the verses, too. So, anyway, maybe Norah Jones meant her Sunrise song to make no sense either."

Even though Alisha couldn't see me, I shook my head out of habit. "No…" I frowned at St. John's grimy linoleum and folded my free arm across my torso. "There's something more to that verse. Maybe it's something I don't understand because I haven't been through it yet."

"You think it's like… an answer that will become clear to you when you need it?"

I snapped my fingers. "That's it. Thank you for phrasing it so perfectly, Alisha."

"Ahh. Well, Vi… would you like me to burn a CD for you and bring it over with the groceries?"

"Oh, could you? I'd be very grateful."

"I'll do it. Are there any other songs you'd like me to put on that CD?"

"Ah… well… I'm partial to a wide variety of styles, Alisha. You know most of what I like. Oh, but I did hear a song by Celine Dion called Make You Happy, and I could have sworn she wrote it after hearing about myself and St. John and then… and then went back in time and released it with one of her albums."

I had to clear my throat, and I blinked down a fresh surge of grief.

Fortunately Alisha didn't seem to notice. She prattled on. "Yeah, that's a nice song. I guess I'll throw some of this America stuff on here and see if you can make heads or tails of it – or at least laugh your head off trying."

I smiled softly. "That sounds nice, Alisha."

She giggled. "I always get a kick out of it. Okay, now, for a shopping list. Hang on and let me get a piece of paper here… and, and a pen. Okay, got it all together. What kind of stuff do you need?"

I gave a dry laugh. "Everything. St. John is… not exactly a housekeeper."

I ran over an extensive selection of basic household supplies, hoping I wouldn't forget something commonplace and important. Lysol, cleaning sponges, dishwasher soap, and garbage bags topped the list. I also requested a variety of scrubbers and those things called Brillo pads, which were basically made of thin metal strips meshed together. They were specifically designed for removing cemented food from dishes.

"Jeez, girl. Sounds like you've got your hands full. Are you sure he has a mop and broom?"

My throat tightened. "Yes, I'm sure," I croaked.

Alisha and I moved basic food items. That's when I heard a sound from the living room that sounded like choking.

Cold gripped my heart. "Oh Aslan. Alisha, I have to go."

I slammed the phone down without saying goodbye and raced into the living room, pale and wide-eyed. I found St. John leaning over the side of the couch, and his face was a shade of sickly green.

"Z-Zephina," he stammered. Before he finished his plea for help, he doubled over and lost his breakfast.


	17. Far Away

That moment marked our headlong plunge into hell.

I'd barely had time to run for a bucket and station it next to the couch before St. John threw up again. And then again. I rested a gentle hand on his back until the fit subsided, and I leaned his shaking body into the pillows once more and stroked his hair to soothe him.

And held my breath, forcing my stomach to settle down. Centaur noses are particularly sharp, and at that moment, I was not happy with Aslan for creating us that way – though my acute sense of smell had saved my life on more than one occasion.

After an eternity, St. John managed to close his eyes and fall into an uneasy sleep. I never said a word. I didn't dare. Between my grief over his condition and my struggle with keeping the queasiness out of my stomach, I had no room to spare for words.

A car drove into the driveway. I glanced out the window and recognized Alisha's dark blue Honda Civic. Immediately I rose and crossed the living room, glanced once at St. John's sleeping form, and opened the door. Cold, fresh air was a welcome relief after being cooped up in that stifling living room.

"Alisha," I called as she stepped out of the car, staring at me with her flame-colored hair billowing around her. She pushed the car door shut, and she paused to stare at me with a numbing collision of emotion in her emerald eyes.

"Vi." She finally found her voice. "You look… awful."

I glanced down at myself. My black turtleneck and skirt were badly rumpled from all I'd been through in the past few days, and my dark hair hadn't been brushed out properly after a wild run and too many hours of self-neglect. I shrugged a little.

"I've been better, I suppose," I answered quietly. I folded my arms protectively over my torso and hugged them close. "Alisha… I really appreciate you taking the time to run errands like this."

"Good Lord, Vi, it's nothing," gasped the Norwegian girl. She swept her hair out of her face and sighed, looking very distressed. "I wish I could do more."

I shook my head emphatically. "Don't wish that, Alisha – please. This… this Legacy Virus… It's highly contagious, and it's fatal if you catch it. The one favor you can do me is to leave everything on the front doorstep and don't… don't try to come into this house. It's too dangerous."

He green eyes widened, and then she burst into tears. "Violar…" She sniffled, wiping away her tears as quickly as they fell. "I don't want you to catch it…"

I lowered my head. I was a mutant, and that put me at risk. Every minute I spent around St. John, my chances of catching the Legacy Virus myself increased dramatically.

But that didn't make a dent in my desire to stay with him. Even though I wasn't eager to meet death, I really didn't care if it caught up with me. And that should have been alarming.

"I was exposed to it first," I said more gently. "I only hope that I haven't put the mutants at Xavier's at risk by bringing St. John to the MedLab for his examination. If I'd known…"

I stopped there. If I'd known that St. John was carrying a deadly and contagious disease, what would I have done? As a healer, I wouldn't have wanted to put more lives in danger – not even for St. John's sake. But at the same time, I'd latched onto St. John so desperately that I couldn't stand there and do nothing if there was even the slightest chance that I could have done something for him.

_What would I have done?_ That was a question I couldn't answer.

"Don't worry about that, Vi." Alisha was still rubbing her eyes and sniffing. "Storm and the Professor are taking medical precautions and doing checkups on everyone. We have the whole situation under control."

I bit my lip. Alisha didn't say it, but I knew that even if a mutant tested positive for the Legacy Virus, nothing else could have been done for that person. The guilt that suddenly crushed my conscience was unbearable.

I looked up at Alisha determinedly. I would not put my best friend in harm's way, either. And I had to make my case in a manner that would convince my selfless friend to keep herself safe.

"Alisha, listen carefully, please. For… for the sake of everyone in the mansion, you cannot risk exposure to this disease. We will talk by phone, and you can leave everything on the doorstep. If you want to, we can wave at each other through the window. But if you do more than that, you could put innocent lives in danger."

The teenage girl looked even more distressed. "Vi…"

"Promise me," I ordered firmly.

She sighed, whimpered to herself, and looked away as she relented. "I promise. But I don't promise to be happy about it."

"None of us are," I replied matter-of-factly. "While you're here, can I make a few more requests for the next shopping list?"

"Um, yeah. Hang on and let me get something to write on." She opened the door and ducked into her car, then reemerged with a pen and a mail envelope. "Okay, all ready. What else do you need?"

_Something to hold together a breaking heart would be nice,_ I thought but didn't say. Duct tape was good for many things, but – as far as I knew – duct tape had done nothing for anyone's hearts.

I asked for several buckets, a hose for the backyard, more powerful detergents to take care of scum and grease, and dishrags. "St. John doesn't have basic necessities," I explained. "It's all I can do to think of these things because I simply _expect_ them to be here."

Alisha nodded, but she didn't look up from her patient writing. "What else?"

Herbal teas of all different varieties and my satchel, was my reply. For myself I added requests for a brush, a few extra clothes from my room, a couple of ordinary houseplants, and air freshener spray to the list.

"The life of a centaur depends on that spray," I quipped with dry humor.

Alisha didn't seem to think that was very funny. She remained stoic as she scribbled. "Right. Okay. Is that everything?"

"I think so. One other detail: After you bring my satchel here, I'm going to take what I need from it. Then I'd like you to give it to Storm for safekeeping. She may be able to make use of the herbs and the cordial."

The girl's shoulders sagged, and she stopped writing. "She won't know how to use them," she pointed out shakily.

I sighed heavily. "She may be able to do research on those herbs and determine uses that even Narnians haven't thought of. The cordial is simple enough: A drop of it speeds up the body's natural healing processes. It has its limits, but I rely on it for most of my healer's work."

She looked up at me, biting her lip with fearful hope in her eyes. "Will it work for St. John?"

"I don't know. It works better for injuries than illnesses, but I'm going to try it," I answered, looking away so I wouldn't have to see the light in her green eyes fade. "That's also what I want the herbal teas for. I may be able to find a combination that at least soothes him. But I don't know, Alisha. This Legacy Virus is… it's vicious."

I heard her gulp, and she folded and tucked the envelope into a pocket of her jeans. "I'll do it then, Vi. And I'll tell her what you said about the cordial."

"Good, thank you." I drew a sharp breath. "I hate to ask this, but just in case nothing else works… I could put some kind of alcoholic beverage to use."

Her green eyes snapped to mine. "I'm only seventeen, Vi. I can't buy—"

"I'm not picky," I interrupted her. "I prefer wine, but if nothing else is available, nip something from Logan's stash. And don't pretend you don't know where it is."

She bit her lip, but she nodded. The afternoon silence fell heavy between us, and the clear air was quieter because it was winter. Alisha looked as if she were trying to keep herself from crying, but I felt almost nothing. I felt disembodied and removed from reality - as if I'd already died.

This was how it felt to be a ghost, then.

"I, um…" Alisha's quiet voice filtered through the dark stormclouds around me. "I brought that CD for you."

I lifted my gaze and studied the slender girl for a long time. We'd met over Socrates one rainy afternoon in Xavier's library: She'd been struggling with the overly verbose vocabulary of the Greeks, who were apparently just as fond of their words as they were of their deep thinking. I'd taken the narrative of Lysis and, in a fit of humorous inspiration, turned Aristotle and company on their heads while a bunch of mutants gathered around and laughed until their sides hurt.

Alisha and I had bonded immediately. She was an excellent seamstress, and she made more than one outfit for me. Because I was from Narnia, she felt a certain creative freedom. Then she made my Halloween costume, which was directly responsible for an incredible adventure I had at a New York theatre.

Abruptly I realized that Alisha was looking at me, waiting for an answer.

"Thank you," I said quietly, and she nodded. "I mean… for more than just the CD, or all the supplies you've brought. Thank you… for everything. Your friendship has meant a lot to me, Alisha."

That did it. She folded her arms on top of the car, buried her face, and sobbed.

I pursed my lips tightly and looked away, my own vision blurring. I was almost grateful for the painful way my throat constricted. At least I was still capable of feeling _something_.

"Vi… Violar," Alisha whimpered. Suddenly she darted around her car and came running up the pathway towards me, her fiery hair flying in her wake.

I scrambled to my feet and backed against the front door in horror. "No no no, Alisha, don't – stop! Don't come any closer!"

She finally halted at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me with wild red-rimmed eyes and tears staining her pale cheeks. Her small fists were clenched, as if that action alone were the only thing holding her resolve together.

But I was awake now. She'd broken me out of my shell. I managed a faint, but genuine, smile.

"It's the thought that counts," I told her softly.

That seemed to get through to her at last. She gradually calmed down until, a moment later, she was able to offer a smile in return.

"Okay, Vi, but… I'm not going to tell you goodbye." Her voice was drenched in emotion, but resolute. "You're not leaving yet."

I huffed gently and nodded. Inwardly, I acknowledged that leaving immediately would have been the less painful way to do things.

"You may have to remind me of that," I told her with a slight grin. My fingers tightened on the door handle. "But… I should go, for now. I'll wait until you go home, then I'll bring everything inside. Knowing you, though, I… I hope I don't have to use one of those forklifts."

Startled, Alisha giggled. I wiggled my fingers at her in a gesture of farewell and stepped back into the house.

It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the darker interior. St. John was still lying on the couch, apparently sleeping. I would have gone to check on him, but the thick smells of sickness in the living room were too much for my overwhelmed senses. I made sure he was breathing, then headed into the kitchen to wait.

And while I was waiting, I switched on the clock radio.

_This time, this place,_

_Misused, mistakes,_

_Too long, too late,_

_Who was I to make you wait?_

_Just one chance,_

_Just one breath,_

_Just in case there's just one left;_

_'Cause you know,_

_You know, you know..._

_I love you,_

_I've loved you all along,_

_And I miss you,_

_Been far away for far too long;_

_I keep dreaming you'll be with me_

_And you'll never go,_

_Stop breathing_

_If I don't see you anymore..._

I trembled all over. Turning, I pressed my back into the kitchen wall and leaned against it, letting the words wrap around me – and almost terrified of what else the lead singer would say.

_On my knees, I'll ask,_

_Last chance for one last dance,_

_'Cause with you, I'd withstand_

_All of hell to hold your hand;_

_I'd give it all,_

_I'd give for us,_

_Give anything but I won't give up;_

_'Cause you know,_

_you know, you know…_

_So far away,_

_Been far away for far too long;_

_So far away,_

_Been far away for far too long;_

_But you know, you know, you know…_

_I wanted,_

_I wanted you to stay,_

_'Cause I needed,_

_I need to hear you say…_

_That I love you,_

_I've loved you all along;_

_And I forgive you,_

_For being away for far too long;_

_So keep breathing,_

_'Cause I'm not leaving you anymore;_

_Believe it,_

_Hold on to me and, never let me go;_

_Keep breathing,_

_'Cause I'm not leaving you anymore;_

_Believe it,_

_Hold on to me and, never let me go;_

_Keep breathing,_

_Hold on to me and, never let me go…_

Slowly, I slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees and pulling them close to my chest. Then, just as slowly, the walls inside of me began to crack. I lowered my face into my forearms and let the tears pour out of me.

"I forgive you," I whispered.

I didn't know who I was forgiving. Aslan. My parents. St. John. Angel. Maybe all of them.

Because they had left me alone. I knew that loneliness was, in the grand scheme of things, temporary. I would see them all again someday. Death and broken hearts and shattered dreams couldn't keep us apart forever.

I knew the truth of love. None of them wanted to leave me, even temporarily – save perhaps Angel, but since he didn't know what he'd done, I couldn't place blame on him. But deep down, I was angry at being left alone to fend for myself and to pick up the shattered pieces of my soul. Because of that song, I'd had a glimpse of the other side – into the hearts of those who did love me.

They were all so far away.


	18. Conquering the Kitchen

"Sixty-five over one-ten. That's a bit lower than normal, but I think – in your condition – it's to be expected. So I shouldn't worry too much."

The kindly voice belonged to Ororo Monroe, a beautiful dark-skinned woman with dazzlingly white hair, who had fastened a black cuff around St. John's upper arm. We were in the MedLab, and I stood off to one side with my right hind hoof tucked under, observing this unreal scene and wondering if I would wake up from what had to have been a nightmare.

_Any moment now, I'll find myself in St. John's living room – on his couch. We kissed last night, for goodness' sakes. This can't be happening._

St. John endured Storm's ministrations with a cocky smirk on his face, but there was no denying the very real pain in his icy blue eyes. The constricting black cuff was probably hurting him more than he let on, I thought, if the slightest touch from me caused him to recoil.

Unless he doesn't want me to touch him.

I pushed the thought aside as quickly as it came. It couldn't be. Surely he remembered how much he'd wanted to kiss me the night before. Surely that desire hadn't been spur-of-the-moment and quickly forgotten.

But what if it was?

I bit my lip and shifted my weight, tucking my left hind hoof into a common centaurian resting pose. I could still hardly believe I'd given my first deliberate kiss to St. John… nor could I bring myself to regret it. I didn't know what to think. I stared across the room at him with a wistful sigh. He was beautiful…

"Anything else, doctor?" wondered St. John sarcastically, shattering my romantic muses.

Ororo answered firmly. "Yes. A blood test."

St. John grinned, showing his fine white teeth. It would have been a captivating smile, had it not been so full of arrogance and rebellion. His arms, now free of the black cuff, shifted behind him enough that he could lean his hands on the metallic table, and he slouched into a remarkably insolent pose. "Yeah, good luck."

Ororo gave the boy a long, measured glance. Then she turned and crossed the room to where I stood, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Violar, I need to get that blood sample, and the only way to do it is hold him down. Could you help me?"

I jerked back sharply and half-glared at her. "What? I can't..."

My hissing whisper was cut off by the realization that Storm was, of course, just trying to help, and that this was critical... and that St. John was just being stubborn. I looked down at the floor, drawing a front hoof idly across the silver metal surface.

_Why me?_

I ran my fingers through my hair. _I don't want to do this._

I snapped my tail irritably. _Do I have a choice?_

Then, when I ran out of stall tactics and mental arguments, I clenched my jaw, looked Storm squarely in the eye, and nodded.

Fixing a pleasant expression on my sad features, I walked past Storm and approached St. John, gazing at him with concern. He didn't look at me, and my heart squeezed. _Does he suspect what I'm about to do?_

"Hey," I said softly, touching his cheek with feather-lightness. My hand trailed tenderly down his face and settled on his shoulder, and he finally met my eyes. I saw wary mistrust and a challenging, latent aggression there. But I didn't allow our locked gaze to linger, in case he probed into my own gaze to discover things I was trying to hide.

I moved slowly around the table, taking my place behind him with a sigh. "You're not going to like this any more than I," I said quietly.

I knew St. John had been watching Ororo and me, and he was bright. He must have guessed that something was up. So I opted for a slight ruse: I wanted him to know that my powwow with Storm had indeed been about persuading him, and if at all possible, I was going to do just that - without force.

Leaning my face close to his, I murmured in his ear. "Will you please let Storm take a blood sample?" I pleaded with him in the same soft tone. "She's just trying to help, and I'm asking you to let her. Please, St. John. I had to go through the same thing once, and it's... well..." I cast about for something to say that was true, yet not a deterrent. I hated needles every bit as much as I sensed St. John did. "It's not so bad, really, and it's over pretty fast. Trust me? Please?"

An unhappy sigh met my plea. A slight shock rippled through my Danger Sense as St. John glanced over his shoulder at me, and the look he gave me was enough to make my blood run cold. His narrowed eyes were frigid and uncaring, and a harsh little smile played over his lips. It was the look of a killer.

"No." That was all he said.

I shot a glance at Storm, then tightened my jaw. He was going to hate me for this. But I cared more about St. John than I cared about his feelings for me.

Now or never.

The instant my hands gripped his shoulders, St. John moved like lightning and twisted out of my grasp with uncanny strength. He slipped off the table and backed toward the doorway, clicking his lighter in warning as he glared at Storm and me.

Infuriated that he'd gotten away from me, I clopped around the table and took a step toward him. Instantly a ball of flame erupted from the lighter and flowed to St. John's upper arm. His cold, threatening stare was on me.

I seethed. "You're making this _really_ difficult, pal."

The door slid open as Pyro backed away. I caught my breath, suddenly desperate as his blond head ducked into the hallway. He glanced both ways, and cold dread seized my heart as I realized how close he was to escape. St. John backed slowly towards the hallway, and I knew he wanted to make a run for it. I had to act, fast.

Suddenly I jerked my gaze sideways – over Pyro's shoulder and out the corridor. My expression lit with recognition.

"Logan!" I greeted.

St. John instantly turned in the direction of my eyes, and I broke into full gallop. His gaze darted back to me, and he threw out his right hand – and the lighter.

I was counting on just that. Like a jousting knight, I swooped low and struck his arm to one side, then swung my other fist, connecting soundly with his jaw. Stiffening my forelegs, I skidded across the metal floor and came to a screeching halt right in front of him – just as the ball of flame that had been meant for me torched the entire side wall of the MedLab.

I felt the intense heat of the blast, but I kept my gaze locked with St. John as he stumbled backwards, wavered unsteadily, and finally collapsed on the metal floor. At least my punch had been strong enough to knock him out. The emergency sprinkler system went off.

Ororo gave a cry of alarm. "Violar, your fur!"

I gasped and instinctively rolled onto my side, smothering the sparks before they could do any real damage to my palomino hide. More sprinklers went off, and indoor rain poured down on me and my singed side.

A second later, I rolled upright and leaned forward, gripping the unconscious mutant boy by the shirt collar. "Gotcha," I growled. I turned Pyro backwards and locked my arms around him, in case he woke up, and I glared at Storm. "Now, and hurry."

Ororo darted forward, dropped to her knees, and aimed her syringe at St. John's forearm. But she miscalculated, and a sharp pain stung into my skin as she plunged the needle into my forearm instead. I jerked awake and gasped.

"Wait…"

It was morning again, and I was on the floor of St. John's living room. Sleeping fitfully on the couch beside me was St. John himself.

I groaned and rubbed my eyes. I'd endured eight hours of broken sleep in between frequent checks on St. John's condition, and I was as exhausted as if I'd been up for two days straight. To make matters worse, I was having nightmares that replayed that sordid scene in the MedLab over and over, as if my mind refused to leave that place of uncertainty over St. John's fate. Granted, my subconscious took artistic license with the ending, but the rest was true to life.

"I get it, alright?" I grumbled to no one in particular, scowling at the wall. "It's inevitable. That doesn't mean I have to accept it, and I'm not going to."

There. It was stubborn and illogical, but I didn't care. Logic meant nothing in the midst of tragedy.

I pushed myself out of the twisted blankets and stretched my arms toward the ceiling, then wandered into the kitchen. My ravenous stomach said it was time for breakfast. My flat emotions wanted nothing to do with food – or anything else, for that matter. I decided not to bother with breakfast until St. John woke up. It wasn't worth the effort to cook two small meals.

St. John's kitchen needed to be plowed under by one of New York's bulldozers. There was little or nothing salvageable there – just rubble. Even though I'd filled up three trash bags with garbage the day before, I hadn't even touched the dirty dishes. A cockroach, who was feasting on one of the nearest plates, froze when he sensed my presence. I shot him a dull glare.

"Out, right now, or you'll regret it," I warned him a low tone.

The cockroach considered that, then reluctantly abandoned the plate and skittered into hiding. I huffed to myself.

"Wise decision," I whispered. Then I turned on the clock radio, donned yellow latex gloves, took out a bottle of detergent and a fresh roll of trash bags that had been tucked in with the supplies Alisha had left on the front doorstep, and got to work.

It was just the clock radio and me.

_No, I'm not colorblind,_

_I know the world is black and white;_

_Try to keep an open mind, but..._

_I just can't sleep on this tonight._

_Stop this train,_

_I want to get off and go home again,_

_I can't take the speed it's moving in,_

_I know I can't,_

_But honestly, won't someone stop this train..._

I cleared grimy dishes out of the smelly sink and stacked them in precariously-balanced towers on the counter, glowering and inwardly smoldering. "Thank you, John Mayer, for reminding me that I didn't get enough sleep last night," I growled to myself.

But my gloved hands were too inundated with water, detergent, and debris for me to simply cross the room and shut off the clock radio. I had no choice but to let it play.

_Don't know how else to say it,_

_Don't want to see my parents go;_

_One generation's length away_

_From fighting life out on my own._

Squeezing out a big yellow sponge I'd dipped into a bucket of Lysol and hot water solution, I scowled and threw extra-hard jabs into my swipes at the brown sink. Beneath all the grime, I discovered a glint of silver. I concentrated on that rather than the things this John Mayer fellow said that hit too close to home.

_Stop this train,_

_I want to get off and go home again,_

_I can't take the speed it's moving in;_

_I know I can't,_

_But honestly, won't someone stop this train..._

_So scared of getting older,_

_I'm only good at being young;_

_So I play the numbers game to_

_Find a way to say that life has just begun;_

_Had a talk with my old man,_

_Said help me understand;_

_He said turn 68, you'll renegotiate;_

_Don't stop this train,_

_Don't for a minute change the place you're in;_

_Don't think I couldn't ever understand,_

_I tried my hand;_

_John, honestly, we'll never stop this train..._

_See once in a while, when it's good,_

_It'll feel like it should;_

_And they're all still around,_

_And you're still safe and sound,_

_And you don't miss a thing_

_Til you cry when you're driving away in the dark..._

_Singing stop this train,_

_I want to get off and go home again,_

_I can't take this speed it's moving in,_

_I know I can't,_

_Cause now I see, I'll never stop this train._

This routine went on for three days. When St. John was sleeping or resting on the couch, I cleaned his house – and listened to music, or tried to ignore it. At least it was better than listening to my own thoughts or the deathly pall of silence.

I nearly puked when I opened the refrigerator for the first time. I recoiled with a firm hand clamped over my mouth, utterly revolted by the disgusting sights and the awful putrid smells. I then spent the next two hours throwing away pretty much everything - even the Tupperware and glass jars that had once contained various sauces, salad dressings, and condiments - and washing down the inside of the refrigerator three and four times before it finally reached my high standards of hygiene. I couldn't help wishing that Alisha had brought me one of those environmental suits. Cleaning St. John's house was not a job for the faint of heart.

The dishes were scrubbed - an incredibly trying ordeal involving several chipped fingernails on my part, and most of the plates had to be soaked in hot water for hours before they would relinquish cemented bits of food they'd held onto for weeks, or perhaps months - there was no way of knowing.

I smiled grimly at the irony of it all: _I_ needed to be soaked with tears before I'd release those I loved to the care of anyone else, even though I couldn't have found a better caretaker to entrust with Pyro than Aslan himself. But my aching heart didn't want to let him go.

How do you say goodbye to the man you love?

I swallowed down the knots of tears that lodged in my throat and tried to stay focused. And it worked. After a few hours, interrupted only by a brief breakfast with St. John and two of his fits of nausea which inevitably followed, the kitchen looked almost normal. The dishwasher hummed and churned with its fourth load of dishes, I'd disinfected and reorganized his dish cabinets, and the last very disappointed ants were running around and wondering what their world had come to. The cockroaches had already packed up and skipped town, though I was sure I'd find a few sneaking around under the cover of darkness, looking for a stray crumb or two that even a vigilant centaur might have overlooked.

Which didn't happen. Cleaning kept me sane, and I threw myself into it wholeheartedly. I imagined the accumulated dirt and grime to be the Legacy Virus itself, and I attacked it accordingly. It lent a fresh vengeance to my efforts.

I straightened stray papers and envelopes, which were all over creation, and piled them with the junk mail in neat little stacks on the newly-dusted kitchen table. Later, I thought, I could go through the mail with St. John and find out how much of it should be thrown away. I guessed there would be little – or nothing – to keep. Among the envelopes were a few very old utility bills from the companies that supplied his water and electricity. They had been sent diligently every month, I noticed, until finally they tapered off. There were no recent bills of any kind. I shuddered to think how St. John must have threatened those companies to keep his utilities active without him paying a cent. Eventually they must have given up.

_No more sadness..._

_I wanna be the one to make you happy,_

_I wanna be the one to give you hope;_

_But in these days of conscious living,_

_We've got to take it slow;_

_You can't be sure of who you've met,_

_You just don't know what you might get;_

_Cause in these crazy times we're living,_

_Love can turn into regret;_

_But you could be the one to change my point of view;_

_It's all up to you!_

_Give you love without the pain,_

_Show you light beyond the rain,_

_Gonna make you happy!_

_Gonna make you happy now._

_There'll be days when things go wrong,_

_I'll be there to make you strong,_

_Gonna make you happy!_

_Gonna make you happy._

_I wanna find a place where dreams can happen,_

_I wanna find a love who'll take me there,_

_And in your eyes I see a vision_

_That makes me want to care;_

_And if two people both agree_

_That only love can set them free,_

_Then together let us make a world_

_Of which others only dream;_

_And you can be the one to make it all come true,_

_So what you gonna do?_

_I'll give you love without the pain,_

_Show you light beyond the rain,_

_Gonna make you happy!_

_Gonna make you happy now._

_There'll be days when things go wrong,_

_I'll be there to keep you strong;_

_Gonna make you happy,_

_Make you happy now!_

_Some days the sun don't wanna shine,_

_And I'll be yours and you'll be mine!_

_Gonna make you happy, happy;_

_I ain't the kind to be untrue,_

_Wanna spend my life with you;_

_Gonna make you happy!_

With Celine Dion's powerfully melodic voice singing in the background, I swept and mopped St. John's linoleum. I was shocked to discover an entirely different color beneath layers and layers of ugly yellow-brown grime: Off-white tiles accented by grape-purple and forest green. St. John's house was actually beautiful, I realized – much like he himself was. Both had been buried and neglected for too long.

The mop water was disgusting and black by the time I finished, and I made a face when I carried it out to the backyard and dumped it out. Then I stood back, holding the swinging bucket by the handle and staring at the thick puddle I'd created and questioning the wisdom of what I'd just done. That small puddle of mop water looked like runoff from a castle in Ettinsmoor. I wouldn't have been surprised if some natural catastrophe resulted from it. Maybe the surrounding vegetation would die, or the water supply would be contaminated, or wildlife - mostly transient birds and trespassing pets from the neighbors - would be poisoned. Almost immediately I dismissed that last thought: Animals would avoid that tar-colored, foul-smelling puddle like the plague if they had any sense at all.

The walls of St. John's house brightened a few shades under the bristles of my relentless brush. Spiders, annoyed at having their cobweb habitats wiped out without warning, were promptly smashed and removed, along with the gruesome remains of their insect dinners. I sneezed a lot in the midst of raising an unbelievable cloud of dust from... absolutely everything. When my sinuses were clogged almost to the point where it was impossible to breathe, I peeked into the living room to check on St. John, then left the house to sit in the backyard.

The backyard was as run-down and depressing as the house had been – and still was, despite its recent improvements. The small square of yard allocated to St. John's property was overgrown with a crop of tall yellow weeds that didn't even look appetizing to a hungry centaur. Plastic bags, empty boxes of beer, and rusty old appliances littered the plot.

On the right side, one neighbor had put up a wooden fence barrier – apparently a long time ago. It had long since fallen into disrepair. Whole boards were missing, others were broken or dangling off to one side, and the boards that bravely maintained their original posts were warped by weather, temperature, and time. In the backyard on the left side, several broken-down vehicles were mounted on gray cement blocks, missing tires and a lot of paint. The vehicle closest to St. John's house used to be a sleek red car, as far as I could tell. A scrawny orange alley cat had moved into the backseat, and she raised a noisy family of mewling kittens. I felt bad for the skittish creature, so I usually brought her a scrap of meat or tossed her a piece of cheese. My offerings were always viewed with suspicion, but hastily snatched before she darted into the shadows.

The neighbors directly behind St. John kept a big, nasty-looking black dog in a chain-link enclosure. It barked and snarled fiercely at me every time I appeared, and it took all my self-control not to snarl right back at him. He didn't scare me – a warrior from Narnia who'd slayed dragons – and I wanted him to know it. But I was concerned that someone would see my behavior and think it odd. In New York, ordinary folk didn't snarl at dogs.

It was not a nice place, at all. It was hardly an escape, and it did little to ease my claustrophobia or the bitter sense that my own life was closing in on me. Sickly-sweet odors of ancient, rotten garbage assaulted my sensitive nose. Even at night, the city lights cast a whitish haze over the sky, which nearly obliterated the stars.

The only element that drew me back there, time and time again, was fresh air. I stayed out there until my sinuses ceased to complain; then I bravely squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and marched back into the house.

More often than not, I found St. John awake and sitting up. The anxiety in his blue eyes pierced me to the heart, but when he saw me, he gradually relaxed.

"Hi, St. John," I always greeted him in a soft, warm tone.

He'd return my smile – as best he could. Numerous sores were sprinkled over his forehead, and more appeared every day.

"Hey Zephina." His flat tone could never quite disguise the way he felt at seeing me, and that touched something deep in my soul.

"Are you hungry?"

"Nah."

"How about something to drink?"

He'd just shake his head and grimace.

It hurt like fire, to have those simple necessities turned down. I knew it was because he was afraid of throwing it all up again, which he did on a regular basis – whether he ate or drank or not. I'd stationed a bucket beside the couch, and I'd gotten into the habit of rinsing it in the backyard with the hose Alisha had brought.

But I never dwelt on these things for longer than I had to. Moving to his side, I would kneel down and gaze into his beautiful blue eyes.

"Would you like a kiss?" I'd whisper.

The first time I'd asked, his eyes had blinked wide in shock and his jaw had dropped. I was so thrilled that I'd surprised him. And then he'd smiled – such a smile that burned into my very being – and he'd nodded, ever so slightly. Such a deep warmth swept through me that I knew the brilliance of his smile was mirrored in my own radiant expression, and I'd immediately fulfilled his wish.

The lightest touch on his skin hurt him. I could tell – not only by his soft groans and winces, but by the pangs that drove like needles and daggers into my Danger Sense. I could only imagine what agony he endured just for the sake of a kiss, but I could never say no to him.

And I wanted to kiss him. Aslan have mercy, but I wanted to kiss him…

My fingers brushed ever so delicately over his cheeks and hair as my lips pressed against his, molding and teasing and softly caressing. Another groan escaped him – this one borne of grateful pleasure, not pain. His mouth parted gently, and I felt his shaky, feverish breath on my lips.

With a little whimper, I opened my mouth just enough to mingle my breath with his until we were breathing for each other. That was all. I'd feel his trembling fingers trace a gentle path over my temple and down my neck, and then his weary hand would fall to the couch.

When I'd break the kiss a moment later, St. John looked a little dizzy and as pleasantly disoriented as I felt. I'd smile down at him. He'd smile back at me.

I survived on those moments. I think St. John did, too. He never said anything about it, but he didn't have to. The enraptured look on his face said enough.

Then I'd try to tempt him with some kind of treat. "Alisha brought some vanilla yogurt, if you'd like some," I'd say; or, "You should try a little bit of banana pudding. I made it earlier and put it in your refrigerator, and it's cool and sweet and it should be very gentle on your stomach."

More often than not, in the wake of a kiss, he'd easily relent. But no matter how gentle anything was on his stomach, the Legacy Virus would force my offering to go back the way it came. My bucket would be waiting for him, and I'd sit beside him, rubbing his back until the retching stopped.

"Please don't touch me," he'd gasp.

I'd swallow hard. His pain tolerance levels were dramatically decreasing as his nerve endings grew more raw and sensitive. "It's alright, love. Let me get you cleaned up."

It was a dreary ritual, but it had to be done. The Legacy Virus demanded it of us. I carefully bathed his face with a cool cloth, helped him rinse out his mouth with a glass of cold water, and took the bucket to the backyard for a thorough washing. After I'd returned the bucket to its rightful place, I'd sit in the La-Z-Boy with my hands clasped in my lap as he drifted into an uneasy slumber. I studied his tense face, dotted with sweat and open sores. It was so hard, to watch St. John suffering like this…

It could only get worse.


	19. The Legend of Ebo

"Would you like me to read you a story?"

The only response I got was a tired groan. "Whatever… you want." Often he wouldn't trouble himself to even open his eyes.

To tell Pyro a story, I didn't need a book: I was a centaur and a storyteller. There were very few books in his house anyway, though I'd run across a handful of surprising titles when I'd unearthed them from the mess that was his house. In the days that followed, I read him Curious George, along with several children's books by a fellow named Bill Peet who had a wonderfully realistic yet whimsical style to his colored-pencil artwork. His tales were a true delight, and when I laughed at the stories, I saw St. John smile. We shared The Spooky Tail of Prewitt Peacock, Cowardly Clyde, How Drufus the Dragon Lost His Head, Cyrus the Unsinkable Sea Serpent, Kermit the Hermit, Buford the Little Bighorn, and Merle the High-Flying Squirrel.

St. John liked those. My Danger Sense flooded with warm nostalgia and contentment, and I often caught a faint smile on his lips before he fell asleep. I couldn't help wondering what these books meant to him.

But I never asked.

When I ran out of books to read him, I adapted stories from my own life – tales that weren't dissimilar from Bill Peet's lively, charming stories which so often centered around Talking Animals. The way Bill Peet brought his animal characters to life caused me to wonder if he'd had ever been to my world.

The one story of mine that St. John didn't sleep through surprised me.

"Once upon a time, near the northern border of Narnia, there was a vixen named Farlan who came upon a baby blue dragon sleeping in a cave."

St. John's blue eyes fluttered open, and I felt in my Danger Sense that I had his full attention.

"In Narnia," I continued, "there were few dragons as a rule. Most of them were red or gold, though occasionally white or black. Blue was a very rare color indeed. So were lonely orphan dragons. Now since most dragons were dangerous, Farlan thought about sending a message to Narnia's knights or High King Peter. That would have been the proper way to deal with the matter. But Farlan was a sweet fox with a true mother's heart, and she couldn't bear to see anything happen to the little dragon. So she took him in and raised him in her own den, and she named him Ebo."

"Ebo," St. John repeated with a soft chuckle.

I smiled. "The blue dragon soon outgrew Farlan's den, so she moved into a cave. She was careful to keep him hidden out of sight, and she learned to deal with such problems as a dragon with a cold. You see," I went on as St. John chuckled again, "when a dragon has a cold and sneezes a lot, he tends to light things on fire – even as a baby. Farlan contented herself with fewer belongings and delighted in the young dragon instead. When Ebo started teething, Farlan brought him the biggest bones she could find. She soaked them in the cool river and brought them back for Ebo to chew. She spent long hours licking and cleaning his sky-blue scales, mothering him in a very tender way.

"But, of course, she worried about what would happen as Ebo grew up. Within a few short weeks, the blue dragon had doubled the size of his adopted mother. She hunted for him night and day, bringing back deer, rabbits, and small rodents for him to eat. But she couldn't keep him in that little dark cave forever, and she knew it. Finally she gathered her courage, told Ebo to stay in the cave and wait for her return, and she made the trip down to Cair Paravel and requested an audience with High King Peter."

I sighed. "The king was not pleased about a potential threat to Narnia – harbored by one of Narnia's own, no less. Farlan begged and pleaded with the king to hear her out. 'Ebo is my son,' she declared with all the passion of a mother. 'If you banish him to Ettinsmoor, then you banish me also – and you doom us both to certain death. If you send knights to hunt or kill Ebo, I will defend him with my life. I would hate to kill any knight of Narnia, but I will do so for Ebo's sake, if I must. My Ebo is innocent. He's never hurt anyone.'

"The king considered the matter in silence for a long time. Finally he said, 'Bring the dragon to me, and let me judge him for myself.'

"'Not unless I have the king's word of honor that no harm will come to him,' Farlan replied.

"'By the golden mane of Aslan, you have it,' decreed the king.

"And so it was that the blue dragon was brought out of the dark cave, into the sunshine, and right down the heart of Sted Cair to the castle of Cair Paravel itself. The creatures of Narnia had never seen the like of it – the proud vixen with a smiling adolescent blue dragon following at her tail. Stares followed the unlikely pair, and Farlan brought Ebo into the court of the king.

"The meeting went well. Ebo was clearly a good-natured beast who was still learning to talk, and he liked to smile at everyone – big, toothy grins that nevertheless warmed the hearts of Narnia's courtiers. Ebo pointed his claws at various creatures and tried to call them by name. 'Oo-nee-corn! Wabb-abb-itt! Ee-go!' Ripples of laughter flowed through the room, which made Ebo giggle, and even the High King was smiling.

"Everything was going perfectly until little Ebo sneezed. A blast of flames issued from his mouth and lit a gray unicorn's tail on fire.

"Panic flooded the room. Thinking quickly, Farlan darted forward, seized someone's cloak, chased down the terrified unicorn and smothered the flames. It took several minutes for order to be restored in court, and by then, the king was frowning.

"Ebo looked very upset. 'Sowwy,' he said, sitting dejectedly in the middle of the room and crying great big dragon tears onto the marble floor.

"Farlan nuzzled him, then looked soberly at King Peter. There was nothing more she could say.

"'While this dragon is not an intentional threat to Narnia, he is still a threat,' said the king. 'A sneeze like that could destroy more than a unicorn's tail. It could kill a tree and its dryad, or burn down an entire forest, or set wildfire spreading across the Great Plains in the dry summers. Therefore I must ask you to go into the desert to the south – at least until the dragon has grown up enough to manage his sneezes.'

"Farlan was stung, but she knew the king was right. She bowed to him, then led her crying dragon baby out of the castle. She wasted no time and made straight for the southern desert. Foxes are fortunately creatures who can handle harsh climates, and Farlan would have adapted well except for one thing: Food is scarce in the desert, and Ebo was growing. He needed to eat several hundred pounds of meat every day. Farlan was an excellent huntress, and she did her very best, but the work was exhausting and the constant crying of her hungry baby pierced her heart. The vixen grew lean, and there were days when she laid down in the burning heat of the desert and felt that she would die. The only thing that drove her back to her paws was the knowledge that without her efforts, Ebo would starve completely.

"The only good thing that came of their new location was that Ebo no longer had to hide in a cave. He slept in the sun, and his healthier scales turned a deep, vibrant shade of sapphire blue.

"Then, one day, a great lion with a deer in its mouth emerged from the rippling sands. Farlan thought she was delirious from the heat or perhaps seeing a mirage, but the lion walked up to her and dropped the deer before her.

"'What troubles you, Farlan?' asked the lion.

"The fox wondered how the lion knew her name, but she was too hungry and thirsty to ask questions and waste her precious strength with unnecessary talk. 'My baby's hungry,' she rasped.

"'Feed your baby this deer,' the lion commanded. 'And do not forget to eat something yourself.' Then he walked away.

"Farlan was grateful for the deer, but she was exhausted and she knew that a single deer would do little to soothe a growing dragon's appetite. She picked it up and dragged it back to the giant cave she shared with Ebo, and she sat down as he began to eat.

"Ebo ate and ate and ate, then sat back with a deep groan of satisfaction – a sound Farlan had not heard since he'd been a tiny creature living in Narnia. There was plenty of meat left over, so after making certain that Ebo was truly full, Farlan ate until she was satisfied."

"Humph." St. John was frowning at me.

"It's a true story," I said, looking back at him. "Although I'm sure its telling has been altered slightly over the years."

He didn't look convinced. "What happened next?"

"Well, the strength Ebo and Farlan gained from that one meal lasted several days. Farlan returned to her usual hunting routine, and gradually the pair grew hungry again. But Farlan was tired of being hungry. After bringing one more rangy desert-fed deer to the cave, she looked up at Ebo and said, 'Stay here, my son. I'm going back to Cair Paravel to speak with the king.'

"And so she did. The gaunt vixen made the long journey back to the castle, and she arrived to find the palace in a whirl of activity as knights prepared for war. The evil creatures of Ettinsmoor were threatening a full-scale invasion.

"When the king saw the vixen and heard the sad tale of her sparse desert existence with Ebo, he gazed thoughtfully at Farlan. 'Is your son yet grown?' he asked.

"Farlan replied that he was.

"'He could be of great use to us,' said the king, stroking his beard. 'A dragon on our side could destroy enemy forces and spare Narnia many casualties.'

"Farlan was aghast with horror. 'I will not have my son used as a weapon! Ebo is as tenderhearted and harmless as a mouse. The other day, he breathed too harshly and scorched a butterfly, and he cried all afternoon. Another time he accidentally stepped on a desert beetle, and – starved as he is – he wouldn't touch his supper that night. My Ebo is not a killer!'

"The king nodded gravely. 'I will consider this matter after the battle,' he said, and he went off to speak with his knights, leaving poor Farlan alone.

"But meanwhile, in the desert, the sapphire dragon was sleeping in the sunshine near his cave when he was awakened by a visitor. The lion had returned – but without an offering of food.

"'Come with me,' instructed the lion.

"'But… but my mother told me to stay here,' Ebo protested.

"The lion gave a faint smile. 'You do well to listen to her. But you will see her again soon, Ebo. Follow me.'

"Reluctantly, the full-grown blue dragon obeyed as the lion led them to the north, bounding easily ahead of the big dragon's lumbering strides. They took a narrow, rocky pathway littered with loose shale that wound past the lonely Mount Tor, and Ebo caught sight of his reflection in the clear depths of Torspring Pool.

"'Make haste,' the lion urged, and they left the desert behind. They crossed over the green hills of Bergdale – which, fortunately, was deserted. Usually it was populated by fauns, and the sight of a dragon would have caused many a faint."

St. John laughed.

I smiled. "They forded the Great River at Beruna – or, rather, the lion forded the river and Ebo stepped over it. They rumbled over the Great Plains, and when the dragon glanced behind him, he saw how his giant feet flattened the golden grasses.

"'Good lion, where are we going?' he asked. Ebo was a very polite dragon.

"'This way,' was the lion's only reply. They hurried onward until a long line of Narnians appeared on the horizon – many thousands of them, standing close to the border of Ettinsmoor. The dragon's eyes widened at the spectacle. They went a little further, and then the dragon could see numerous dark creatures on the other side of the border, preparing to fight the Narnians.

"The dragon opened his mouth to ask the lion about these things – but he was interrupted by a powerful sneeze. A column of flame scorched the grass just as the lion opened his great jaws and unleashed a powerful roar.

"The Narnians were unsettled and shifted uneasily, but the forces of Ettinsmoor – minotaurs, dark magic wielders, werewolves, goblins, hags, giants, and ogres – took one look at Ebo before they turned tail and ran. Their terror was aided by the wild stamping of Ebo, which shook the ground like an earthquake as he frantically stamped out the flames before they could consume the Great Plains. The neevils heard the thunderous stamping and thought the dragon was in hot pursuit, and they stampeded away and vanished like smoke on the horizon.

"A mighty cheer went up from the Narnians, and High King Peter saw that Aslan was with the dragon. He knew at once what he had to do.

"Messengers were sent to Cair Paravel, and they fetched the vixen Farlan, who was bewildered at the king's summons. As she came to the Great Plains and saw her Ebo standing with the Narnian ranks, she gave a cry of dismay and bounded up to the king to stammer a frantic apology and beg for mercy. But the king stopped her with an uplifted hand and a bemused smile, and Farlan saw that Ebo was being treated as a hero by even the greatest of Narnian knights.

"The story was told to Farlan, and the king issued his decree: 'Ebo is a born Narnian, and in Narnia he shall remain. The Great Plains are the ideal place for a dragon to live. Furthermore, Ebo has saved Narnia this day, and that we shall never forget! He will be given all the honor due a true hero, who saved a country that turned its back on him. Ebo,' he added, motioning for the blue dragon to come closer, 'bow before me.'

"Ebo could only lower his head to the ground. Even so, his snout was higher than the king was tall, which seemed to amuse the king. He drew his sword and gently tapped one side of Ebo's mighty neck, then strode around to tap the flat of his blade against Ebo's other side.

"'Arise, a knight of Narnia,' intoned the king solemnly. All of Narnia rejoiced, and Farlan was hailed as the mother of a hero.

"From that day onward, the gentle dragon and the faithful fox lived together in peace on the northern edge of the Great Plains. As long as the dragon lived, no evil creature dared set foot in Narnia for fear of Ebo's wrath. He was the greatest of Narnia's knights, for no other knight before Ebo had claimed such a victory without even the loss of a single life.

"Only those who lived in Narnia knew of the dragon's sweet nature, and the young animals used to come and play with him. Often Ebo could be found sitting in the golden grass, happily sporting a collection of rabbits, bear cubs, the kits of various cat species, squirrels, chipmunks, and small otters on his scaly back. No good-hearted dragon could have asked for a more delightful existence.

"Occasionally Ebo still sneezed, and his stampings so nearly resembled earthquakes that his name became synonymous with earthquakes ever after. Whenever the earth shook, Narnians would say among themselves, 'Ebo has sneezed again.'

"As for Farlan, she never had to hunt again. Narnians brought them enough meat to keep both mother and her giant dragon son well-satisfied. And that's the end."

St. John blinked at me. He'd been watching me with remarkable coherence in his blue eyes as I finished my tale.

"The end?" he repeated, somewhat incredulous. "Whatever happened to, 'And they lived happily ever after'?"

I lowered my eyes. Legend had it that Ebo had lived on for many peaceful years, then grew sick with a mysterious illness that no healer could cure. Animals came from far and wide to visit him during his last days. When he died, all of Narnia mourned. He was given a hero's funeral and buried with the honors of a knight. All four of Narnia's Royals were present, and Queen Lucy had been disconsolate. She and Ebo had been good friends.

But I was not about to share that part of the story with St. John. Just thinking of it sent a lump to my throat, and I had to turn aside before I burst into tears.

"That was the end," I said huskily. "There is no more to tell."

I stared at the wall. My thoughts strayed to the faithful vixen, Farlan, who had refused to abandon an innocent creature whom she chose to love and raise as her own son. She had outlived Ebo, and she maintained her post near the border of Ettinsmoor until her muzzle turned gray and the red of her fox fur began to dull. She'd died quietly in her sleep one moonlit night, and again Narnia had honored her. Ever after, Farlan's name had been an example of courage and unfailing devotion.

St. John made a dissatisfied noise in his throat, then sighed and closed his eyes with a grimace of pain. Soon his breathing evened out, and I couldn't tell if he was really asleep or only pretending to be.


	20. Last Days

For the first four days, things were bad enough. St. John slept – or rather hibernated. He lost weight at an alarming rate. He kept neither food nor liquid down. And I cleaned or escaped to the dingy backyard when I needed a little space between myself and the inevitable.

On the fifth day, things took a turn for the worse. At three o'clock in the morning, St. John woke up screaming.

I shot out of my blankets and was kneeling at his side in an instant. "St. John!"

He didn't seem to hear me. His face was a mask of agony, and his wide blue eyes stared unseeing at nothing as his body arched in a rigid, painful pose. He bellowed and writhed, thrashing.

I ducked his flailing arm and dove for my satchel. I tore into it with trembling fingers as St. John's cries rattled my nerves, and my hand closed on the cold glass vial of cherry cordial.

"Hang on," I growled, yanking the vial free and scooting back to St. John's side. In an instant I had removed the cork, gripped his hair – which made him howl louder – and pulled his head back to let a drop fall between his parted lips.

The screaming stopped.

A gasping breath escaped me. _Oh Aslan… thank you Aslan…_

St. John's blue eyes never lost their wide, staring look. Then, suddenly, he lurched to one side and retched over the bucket – immediately followed by a roar of agony. He stiffened and retched again, then bellowed like a wounded beast. His body had rejected the cordial, completely.

"St. John!" I yelled over his screams. He flung himself onto his back and contorted into a painful arch, and I yanked my hands out of the way, managing somehow to stuff the cork into the mouth of the vial before I spilled it everywhere. "St. John, snap out of it! Come on, snap out of it!"

I threw the cordial in the direction of my satchel and knelt by his side, clenching my shaking hands into fists until the nails bit into my palms, and I half-hid behind them. His pleading cries ripped through me. Tears streamed down my face. I didn't try to give him something else for his body to reject. There was nothing I could do for him – nothing but watch him suffer.

How long the screaming fit lasted, I don't know. But gradually his cries grew weaker and weaker until they died away altogether. He sank back into the couch cushions, soaked with sweat and panting heavily.

"St. John," I gasped with a sniffle. I didn't even try to fight the losing battle with my tears. "St. John… can you hear me?"

His blue eyes were still wide open, fixed on something I couldn't see. Then, with a little groan, his eyes shut and his head fell to one side.

"St. John!" I panicked. I bit my lip, staring at him until I saw his chest rising and falling. He was still alive.

_Oh Aslan…_

I crawled slowly to my feet. My legs were nothing but jelly as I staggered for the kitchen, wiping away tears as I went. I could see well enough in the dark, so I didn't bother to flip the light switch as I entered. I sank into a newly-dusted kitchen chair and buried my face in my hands, shivering all over.

My nerves were shot. It hadn't helped that I'd been dragged from a deep sleep to deal with a crisis… and I was helpless to do anything about it. I'd tried cordial on St. John several days ago with the same result: His body rejected it, swiftly and violently and without remorse. If the cordial could have helped him, it would have done so before he'd thrown up. But it'd had no effect. That cordial was a useless weapon against the Legacy Virus.

So were all the other potions and teas I'd brewed in a frantic effort to find something, anything, to at least ease his suffering. Nothing had worked. I'd had to stand by and watch while every remedy, every solution that had even the remotest possibility of improving his condition was thrown out in a fit of vomiting.

Alone in the dark kitchen, I buried my face deeper in my hands and broke down, sobbing. _Why, Aslan? How can you let anyone suffer like this?_

The empty echoes of my own wretched weeping were the only answer.

But I had to do something. I couldn't just…

I glanced at the clock on the microwave, no longer obscured by old containers of Chinese takeout. 3:42 stared back at me. It was very late by some standards and far too early in the morning by others, but I had no choice. I picked up the phone and shakily dialed Xavier's number, wondering if anyone would answer at this lonely hour. I pressed the phone to my ear and waited.

One ring… two rings… three rings… four rings…

With a deep sigh, I closed my eyes in defeat. But just before the mechanical voicemail message greeted me, there was a faint click. A sleepy female voice mumbled, "Hello, Xavier's Institute."

I drew a shaky breath. "Hi," I answered as best I could, startled at how bad I sounded – as if I'd survived a war, and just barely. "Um… I'm sorry to call so late, but I… I… I didn't know what else to do…" My voice cracked.

"Violar?" It was Jean. "Are you okay?"

"I… I'm fine," I stammered as a tear streaked down my cheek. My forehead wrinkled up so hard that it hurt. "But I really need… I can't do this. Nothing's helping and I—"

"Slow down, Violar." Her voice was more coherent – sharper and more attentive. "Start at the beginning. What exactly is going wrong?"

I bit back a sob and clutched the phone. "Everything…" I sniffled and struggled to hold myself together. Desperately I drew on my training as a healer and tried to deliver a concise description of St. John's symptoms. "These last few days, he… St. John hasn't been able to keep down sustenance or liquid of any kind. He's had a burning fever, and between that and the constant vomiting, he's melting until he looks… emaciated, like… a skeleton. The open sores have spread from his face and down his arms, and probably down the rest of his body too – I don't know. He won't let me touch him because it hurts too much. Now, just tonight, he had a wild fit of screaming and I don't know what caused it, and even after it was over, he didn't seem to recognize me…"

I couldn't get out more than that past the lump suddenly lodged in my throat. I covered my face with one hand and gripped the phone with the other as Jean sighed.

"These are classic symptoms of the Legacy Virus, Violar." A somber silence fell over the line, and then she said, "Hold on and let me read you something from a paper I have. Um, it's around here somewhere..."

Faint, distant shuffling came over the phone, and I sniffed. "I'm sorry to trouble you, Jean. I hope I didn't wake you…"

"No, Violar, you didn't." She sounded impatient and distracted, and the shuffling continued. "Occasionally we get emergency calls on this line, and someone has to take them. This counts as an emergency. Oh, here it is. I knew I had something on the Legacy Virus somewhere."

I gulped. That Legacy Virus paper had been on top of Jean's desk for a reason. Alisha's remarks about the precautions Xavier and the other X-Men had had to take to ensure that none of the other mutants had contracted the fatal disease in the wake of St. John's visit – which was entirely my fault – came back to haunt me. The realization of how much danger I'd put innocent people in burst into my consciousness with painful clarity, and guilt pierced me like a dagger. It could well have been any number of the mutants I called my friends in St. John's place, writhing and screaming – all because of my thoughtless, hasty actions.

Angel. Professor Xavier. Kurt Wagner. Tessa Niles. Logan Howlett. Alisha Montrose. Jean Grey. I saw them all in St. John's place, arched up on that dingy couch and screaming in helpless agony.

_What was I thinking?_

_You weren't thinking of anyone but St. John,_ returned my thoughts coldly. _Or of yourself._

I closed my eyes against that bitter truth and raked my fingers through my unkempt hair. Granted, I hadn't known back then about the existence of the Legacy Virus, let alone how deadly and contagious it was. But that was no excuse. As a Narnian healer, I knew all about the precautions of quarantine. Healers were careful to keep new patients separated from everyone else – except in the case of a battle, when we were bombarded with so many victims at once that we didn't have the luxury of handling each case on an individual basis. In those hectic moments, it was a race against time to keep all the creatures stabilized, to determine which injuries were the worst and to treat those first before dealing with broken limbs and the smaller, non-life-threatening gashes that merely required stitches.

But St. John was _one man_. My fingers gripped my forelock and tightened. In Narnia, we kept creatures by themselves until we'd determined what ailed them. We changed and washed sheets to make sure our new patients didn't contract so much as a skin rash or mange from a previously infected patient. We'd dealt with epidemics before and we took measures to prevent them.

Except me, in the here and now – because I was in love. Because I was distressed and desperate and not thinking clearly. Because the thought of losing St. John was unbearable.

Because I didn't want to be alone.

"Are you still there? Violar?"

I sniffled and swallowed hard. "Yes, Jean, I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

"You didn't hear any of it?"

I hesitated. My mind was a blank. "Any of what?"

Jean sighed. "It's okay, Violar. I'll read this again. You ready?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"This is a short article on the Legacy Virus, categorizing what little we know about it." Her voice changed enough for me to realize that she was reading as she continued. "'The Legacy Virus is an airborne agent first synthesized and deployed by the terrorist Stryfe…' I'll skip the history part, Vi. Though to briefly summarize: Legacy-1 was what the first version of the virus was called, and it caused a plague that targeted mostly mutants, but didn't discriminate as much as its malicious creators hoped. Humans also died during that era. But Legacy-2 works much slower, so I'll move on to that section of the article. 'There is no known cure for the mutants who contract the Legacy Virus. The Legacy-2 Virus can lie dormant in a carrier for years, though it can be triggered by the use of the host's powers. An early indicator of the virus is the gradual loss of control over the host's powers. It infects—"

I drew a sharp breath, mentally scrambling to keep up. "Wait, wait a minute, what? What was that about the… about the powers?"

"They gradually lose control over their powers, Violar," Jean repeated.

My hand slipped away from my face, and I stared straight ahead in the darkened kitchen. In my mind's eye, I saw the horrible flaming centaur spread his fiery wings, rising up like an avenging Greek god of destruction and death. His blazing eyes burned like those of an evil creature from the darkest depths of Ettinsmoor's Twisted Caverns: A demon. A hideous, golden-red demon. A being completely separate from St. John – completely out of his control.

"By the mane… by the mane… maybe it wasn't his fault," I whispered, staggered by the enormity of the revelation. "Maybe… maybe it was this… this madness…"

Tears conquered my voice, and my heart flipped over and turned inside out. Maybe I'd been right about St. John all along. Maybe the Legacy Virus was having an impact on his behavior. Maybe there was still plenty of good left inside of him. Maybe his soul was salvageable. Maybe…

"Violar?"

I choked down a sob. "Go ahead, Jean," I managed, rubbing tears out of my eyes. "I'm sorry…"

"It's okay," she replied sympathetically. "Let's see, where was I… Legacy-2, right here. 'An early indicator of the virus is the gradual loss of control over the the host's powers. It infects and inflames the mutated cells in a _Homo Superior's_ body, altering the cellular structure at the molecular level and inserting introns – junk DNA sequences – into the transcription codings of the host's RNA. The result is a major compromise of the replication and transcription processes – so disruptive as to eventually render the body incapable of creating healthy cells, ultimately resulting in the death of the victim. Prior to death, the virus causes its host's powers to flare out of control. It has been theorized that the victim's own immune system turns on the infected cells, working feverishly to destroy the virus but ultimately killing the carrier. The—"

"Jean," I interrupted shakily. "Please… I don't need to know the inner workings of this… this thing. I need to know what I can do about it. Is there any information there that could help?"

A brief pause fell on the other end of the line. I guessed she was skimming through the article. "No, Violar, there isn't."

"How about a list of… of even temporary remedies that could ease symptoms?"

Another pause. "No, nothing on that either. It only lists symptoms and catalogues the virus' progress on a limited case-by-case basis. Would you like me to read that to you?"

"Sure," I agreed wearily.

"Okay, let's see. 'In the final stages of Legacy-2, the victim will experience acute weakness and loss of muscle control, a high fever and a dry cough. The victim's stomach will reject food and water due to fever and hyperactivity of the immune system, which loses the ability to discriminate between harmless and dangerous entities. The immune system attacks all foreign objects as hazardous and purges them from the victim's body. Skin lesions, similar in appearance to boils or open sores, will break out on the victim's face, then spread to the rest of the body. Victims are extremely sensitive to touch due to damaged nerve endings. The central nervous system begins to undergo a process similar to liquefaction, aided in part by attacks of the nervous system and the prolonged fever; resulting in severe pain throughout the victim's body.' That seems to be what you described, Vi. 'Bouts of pain become more and more frequent as the Legacy-2 cycle nears its completion.'"

My heart sank. "In other words, I can look forward to a lot more of this."

Jean hesitated. "It… it would seem that way, yeah."

I gulped and slouched forward in my chair, as if to curl up in a protective ball. "How could anyone… anyone… come up with something so… so… horrible?"

I heard Jean sigh. "I don't know, Violar. There are a lot of people out there who hate mutants and would do anything to destroy them, no matter how cruel those methods seem."

I immediately dropped the subject. I'd already realized that I'd never understand the heart of evil when I'd been in Narnia, nor would I ever understand what the wicked were fully capable of. In New York, where technology had advanced by unfathomable leaps and bounds, evil had many more weapons at its disposal. It was… unconscionable. I didn't _want_ to understand it.

"And," I wondered huskily, "does it… the paper… does it mention anything about… soothing the victim's pain?"

Jean sighed again. "No, it says that anything taken internally was summarily rejected, and it has some medical jargon in here that basically means skin creams proved ineffective against the sores and legions. Sedatives and injections were all wiped out by the hyperactive immune system, and, um, there's nothing in the article about soothing the nerve endings. It doesn't sound like anything could touch the things that go wrong with the central nervous system, actually. Among the other things here…" Jean grew quiet for a moment. "This researcher combined the findings from several physicians who tried both conventional and unconventional medicines, and he mentions no success for any of it. Although it doesn't just come right out and say so, it kind of looks like… like there's nothing anyone can do… but just… wait for the, um, the inevitable result."

I shut my eyes and tightened my jaw. No need to ask for clarification on what she meant by "the inevitable result." It made me so unspeakably angry, but my heart was hollow. I didn't have the strength left for real fury.

I swallowed hard. "Did anyone try aloe vera?"

"Mmm… it doesn't say."

"What about cold water?"

"Um, come again? I don't quite follow…"

"Cold water," I repeated quietly. "When someone has a fever, you can soothe them with a cold cloth on the forehead."

"Well," I heard Jean's chair creak as she sat back. "I don't know, Vi. Can't hurt to try, I guess. But the cloth might hurt him, if his nerves are that sensitive."

I groaned and rubbed my face, exhausted from the inside out. "Maybe I'll just pour it on him."

Jean's breath hitched. "That might… not be a good idea."

"Why?" I snapped dully. "Because he might catch pneumonia? Like it matters. He's _dying,_ Jean. Do you even care about that?"

"Hey, easy, Vi. I do care. I was just—"

"Look," I interrupted her again, too tired to argue but too irritated to let her finish. "I know St. John has been your enemy for a long time. I know he's done a lot of things… but none of that matters now. I'm just trying… trying to… to give him whatever comfort… I can…"

My words staggered as the last of my inner strength collapsed, and an anguished sob tore from my throat. "He's alone… he's dying alone. No one else cares…"

I heard Jean start to make another protest, but I put the phone back on the receiver and folded my arms on the table as fierce sobs racked my body. I pulled miserably at my own hair and choked, feeling the tears soak through my blouse sleeves and onto my clammy skin.

The jarring ring of the phone startled me so badly that I jolted – and fell backwards, chair and all, onto the kitchen floor. The breath was knocked from my lungs and my ribs hurt from where the wood of the chair slammed against my crumpled body.

The phone continued ringing.

Groaning and sniffling, I picked myself out of the mess and left the chair where it had fallen. I scooted back against the cold refrigerator door and sat there, my mind a blank and whirling at once. I could usually see in the dark, but not tonight. Tonight there was nothing but a blur. And I didn't want to answer the phone because I didn't have another ounce of energy to spare on someone else's behalf.

I curled up and wrapped my arms around my shivering body. I was so cold. The ringing of the phone stopped, and all was quiet.

Suddenly the phone rang again. At the same moment, a wild scream of pain broke from the living room. St. John sounded as if someone were amputating both his legs without any kind of pain-numbing herbs.

A roar of agony burst from my throat. "No! Aslan, no!"

Before I knew what I'd done, I felt myself scramble to my feet, stumble across the kitchen, and yank open the door. It slammed behind me, and I found myself staring at the backyard weeds in the moonlight.

Only the nasty dog saw me. He roused himself from his slumber, then barreled over to the chain link fence to bark and snarl and let me know what he thought of me. He had a very low opinion of me, indeed.

I slid down to sit on the cracked cement steps behind St. John's house, and I let the threatening darkness close in on me. Numbness gripped my mind, and I stared ahead at nothing. Vaguely I was aware that I rocked back and forth like a crazy centaur.

_Maybe I am crazy._

There were no thoughts after that. It was a long night. The screaming inside the house stopped, only to begin afresh a few minutes later. Every cry he uttered was like another sword through my gut. I could hear St. John's throat growing hoarse.

Dawn found me still sitting there, curled up and staring through glazed eyes at the dead weeds in St. John's backyard. They were such ugly weeds.

Everything was ugly. Everything was black. Every breath I drew was choked and shaky with unfathomable grief. Death was all around me. There was nothing I could do to stop it. And I was trapped. There was nowhere to run.

As the sky brightened, some part of me realized that the sun would shortly rise. I didn't want to see the sun. With a broken whimper, I turned my freezing body, gripped the door handle, and pulled myself upright.

Then I went inside. There was nothing to do now… except face hell head-on.


	21. Final Descent

From that moment on, I never left Pyro's living room.

The sound of St. John's tortured screams shredded me apart. It took every last ounce of emotional endurance I possessed to keep from sobbing in front of him at times like those – not that he would have known. He didn't seem to be aware of my presence anymore. There were no more kisses, no more tender moments. I might as well have been invisible – a ghost lingering by St. John's side.

I could tell that light hurt his eyes, so I shut the dusty living room curtains and closed us both in dreary darkness.

I no longer cared about cleaning his house. Chores weren't an adequate distraction from reality anymore. A few short days ago, I'd been contemplating a way to vacuum St. John's living room carpet without disturbing his rest – or his hypersensitive hearing. I suspected that his overactive nerves might have made ordinary sound difficult to bear, and I wanted to spare him additional suffering.

But it didn't matter anymore. Clean houses were meant for folks to live in and enjoy. St. John wasn't going to live long enough to delight in the fruits of my labors. There was no point.

Sometimes St. John would go for hours without making a sound. During those moments, I sat back on my heels with my hands clasped tightly, just waiting. There was nothing I _could_ do but wait. Sometimes I would lower my head and snatch a few minutes of sleep at a time before jolting awake to check on him.

Then suddenly, without any warning at all, St. John would arch stiffly with those terrible screams that wrenched my heart and ripped it out. I hovered as close to him as I could bear... and spoke, willing my voice to stop shaking.

"St. John, easy, it's alright. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere..." And then my desperate gaze was directed heavenwards. "Aslan, please... please, help us." I trailed off into wordless mumbling prayers that even I didn't understand, but they came pouring from my aching soul like blood from a war wound. And then, as the hollering fit began to recede, I lowered my face and moved even closer to St. John, if only to hide my scowling expression of agony. "St. John," I murmured, drawing a shattered breath, "I love you... I always will."

There was no way to know if he heard me or not. But I could do nothing else for him.

I lost track of time. With the curtains closed, I couldn't see the sun. It jarred me a little when I heard Alisha's car in the driveway. I'd forgotten all about her.

I sat perfectly still and listened to her small feet and the familiar, delicate footsteps coming up the walkway, up the steps, and pausing at the door. I heard the telltale thunks of several items being dropped on the doorstep, and each one seemed to weigh down my spirit a little more. I didn't _want_ gifts. I wasn't interested in food. I wanted nothing – nothing except a miracle. Nothing but something, _anything,_ that could save St. John's life. Or, at the very least, would quiet his terrible cries.

But Alisha's arrival did remind me of my satchel. With St. John thankfully quiet and only half-conscious, I pulled a piece of paper and a clickie pen from my satchel, then scribbled a hasty note in the dark.

_Alisha,_

_Here is my satchel. I no longer have need of it, and it did nothing to help St. John. Please take it to Ororo Monroe or Jean Grey. Also, will you give Jean Grey a message for me? Tell her that I said: Thank you, for what it's worth. I only regret that I won't have the opportunity to apologize to you in person._

_When Kurt and Tessa return from Bavaria, please greet them both for me. I'll never forget their kindness._

I had to stop writing. My hand shook, and I bit down a sniffle. My heart ached when I thought about how I might not see Kurt Wagner again. He'd been so good to me, so gentle and welcoming. Tessa had been as sweet as a mother to me. I wondered what they'd think of me when someone told them the story – that I'd ended up with St. John, that I'd been an accomplice in a robbery, that I'd left the mansion after exposing everyone to a potentially lethal virus and… whatever came after. I just had the most awful feeling that I wasn't going to walk away from this ordeal alive. Maybe that was because I already felt dead on the inside.

But it hurt to think that Kurt might not approve of my actions. I couldn't bear to imagine the look in his glowing yellow eyes when he heard the news. Most likely, he'd be shocked at my behavior – and deeply disappointed in me. A lump clogged my throat as I brought the pen tip back to the paper.

_I love them both very much. I always will. I hope that nothing I've done will hurt them in any way. If it does, please tell them how profoundly sorry I am._

_To Angel…_

I trailed off again with a heavy sigh. How do you fit a broken heart onto a single page? Then I looked up at the sleeping, boyish face of St. John, and a pang of guilt crushed my conscience. I'd wronged both Angel and St. John, but I'd made my choice. It was too late to look back, to wonder, to walk another path. This was my path now. Biting my lip, I continued.

_Tell Angel only that I wish him well. He deserves every good thing in life._

I could say no more than that. I signed my name, stuffed the letter into the top of the satchel, and waited until I heard Alisha's car leave the driveway. Then I took a dagger from the satchel and knelt over St. John's unconscious form.

For a moment I paused. It struck me that I was kneeling over St. John with a knife. If he'd awakened at that moment, would he have thought I was going to hurt or kill him?

Probably. I glanced at the lighter on his wrist, then resolutely gripped his shirt and raked the dagger's blade through the material. St. John winced and groaned in his sleep, and I glanced at him anxiously. His eyes were squeezed shut and his facial features were pulled tight.

_Don't wake up… don't wake up…_

Miraculously, he settled down. I cautiously pulled away the fabric and grimaced at the network of red sores all over his chest and torso.

Leaving the blade on the bookcase shelf, I scooped the satchel into my arms and carried it out the door. I picked up the huge basket Alisha had left on the doorstep, complete with a large blue and silver bow on the handle. My gaze softened when I saw a bottle of aloe vera gel and another bottle of specially-formulated sunburn relief gel tucked among cans of chicken soup and bags of fruit-based trail mix. Tears pricked my eyes. Alisha really did think of everything, and Jean had obviously put in the special request for aloe vera gel on my behalf.

I left the satchel outside, shut the door, and came back to St. John. I decided to try the straight aloe vera gel first. I poured a cold green dollop on my fingertip and barely touched the stuff to one of St. John's sores.

Instantly he woke up screaming.

I crashed backwards into the middle of the basket, then rolled out of the supplies before I managed to crush everything. The basket was smashed, the ribbon was ruined, and I could feel bruises forming in my back from where I'd fallen on tin soup cans.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" I cried. Suddenly I clambered to my feet and darted into the kitchen, frantically scrambling for a large bowl and filling it with cold water. I hurried back to the living room and splashed it unceremoniously on St. John's chest.

The resulting scream nearly popped my eardrums, and I saw him stiffly raise his lighter. I grabbed his wrist at the last second and stopped him from torching either me or the house – or both. But his fingers were too rigid to activate the lighter, and he couldn't fight me.

It took a full half hour for him to settle down. For me, it felt like an eternity. By the time he dropped unconscious, most of the water had evaporated off his chest due to the raging fever in his blood. While he was incapacitated, I took my opportunity: I slipped the lighter off his wrist and hid it under the couch, where I was sure he wouldn't think of looking for it.

If he even had the strength to look for it.

I was exhausted – mentally, emotionally, and physically. I collapsed onto the dirty carpet with my eyes open, and the next thing I knew, it was completely dark outside. The living room was inky blackness and shadows.

I'd been asleep for at least two hours, by rough estimation. So had St. John, whose screaming fits had mercifully subsided for a little while. Either the cold water had helped in the long run, or I'd gotten lucky. I didn't have the energy to puzzle it out.

My stomach was growling. I'd neglected it shamefully over the past 24 hours, and it was ready to threaten mutiny. So I picked through the basket rubble and made a small meal out of trail mix, a head of Romaine lettuce, and a few handfuls of raisins to buy me a little more time.

Just as I finished, St. John woke up screaming. This time, there was no relief for either of us. His cries would subside for a few minutes, then shift into throaty roars of searing agony that shook me to the core. St. John's blue eyes were full of suffering. I knelt by his side, murmuring soothing nonsense in his ear and occasionally whispering that I loved him. And there I stayed there for the rest of the night.

By morning, I was hardly sane.

The thin, pale light seeping between the cracks of the curtain barely illuminated St. John's boil-riddled chest, and I was shaking all over. By the mane, I just wanted it to be over. Aslan have mercy, I hated to admit it… but I did. I was done with this. I had nothing left to give. I was tired – so tired of fighting a beast far more powerful than either St. John or myself, of watching helplessly as it slowly devoured this boy from the inside out and destroyed him piece by piece.

Hours passed. St. John thrashed and hollered like a hoarse, weary madman. I didn't even have the strength to cry; I just let the tears flow down my cheeks without resistance. Once in a while I shook myself from a blackout. It was all I could do to keep breathing.

"I'm still here," I whimpered from time to time. "I'm not… going anywhere."

It was a feeble resolve, but there was nothing left to cling to. Nothing but a promise I'd made him out of love.

A car turned into the driveway. I recognized the sound of Alisha's Honda Civic, and then the engine switched off.

My mind was so liquefied, so half-destroyed, that I was startled when I heard her footsteps coming up the walkway. I'd forgotten her arrival within mere seconds.

I rubbed an exhausted hand over my aching temples, raked my tangled hair back, and stifled a yawn in my elbow. Blinking, I listened to the dull thud of a delivery on the doorstep – a delivery I had no intention of fetching. Not this time. It didn't matter anymore. It could sit there forever, for all I cared. I was sure this trial was almost over, that surely it would end before I needed anything in that new basket.

There was a long silence. I'd nearly forgotten Alisha a second time when I just caught the gentle knock at the door. Alisha had found my note, I dimly realized. She wanted to talk.

I groaned and stared dully at St. John through swollen, sleep-deprived eyes. I didn't want to talk. I wanted to stay right here, watching over the restless mutant as he jerked and spasmed in every direction.

The knock came again. Alisha was certainly persistent. I fully intended to go on ignoring her, but she spoke right through the walls.

"Violar, I know you're in there, so open this door and come out here before you make me come in."

I gulped. It was an awful threat. Between my desire to never see anyone else – particularly Alisha – suffer the way St. John was suffering now and my concern that, if she continued knocking, she'd wake St. John more fully into a world of pain, I reluctantly dragged myself to my feet and shuffled to the door.

I paused with my hand on the doorknob and glanced back at Pyro. Shadows gathered in the hollows of his eyes, making them look like the black, empty holes of a skull. He was still sleeping, seemingly. Something gave me pause – a prickle of warning at the back of my neck. But I couldn't rely on my Danger Sense anymore: It burned constantly, sometimes roaring like an outraged forest fire, sometimes flickering low like a fire in a hearth about to erupt into something much greater. My exhaustion didn't aid my ability to interpret my senses in the least.

Sighing, I pushed away all my stray feelings and cautiously opened the door, peering around the edge. Alisha had moved far away from the door, as per my instructions, and she was standing on the front lawn. I was grateful for that, at least. I stepped out into the cold morning, closing the door after me and leaning wearily against it.

Alisha gazed worriedly at me. The redheaded girl was beginning to look a little pale and wan herself, I noticed with concern, as she hugged her thin arms – and my satchel – close against the cream-colored wool wrap she wore. Her green slacks matched her intense, emerald stare.

"Good morning, Violar," began Alisha hesitantly.

I lowered my eyes from Alisha's probing gaze. "Hi." It was nothing more than a croak. I couldn't risk saying more than that without my voice cracking, so I covered that up by looking over the basket of supplies Alisha had brought and feigning interest in what I found there: A few more cans of soup, two bottles of aloe vera gel, a bunch of yellow bananas and a dozen red apples. Apples were a welcome treat; Red Delicious were my favorite, and Alisha knew it. A lump lodged in my throat.

"Is... is there anything else I can bring you tomorrow?" wondered Alisha.

She was being so kind, so concerned, that I bit my lip hard to keep the tears from overwhelming me. Tears hovered perpetually close to the surface, now. It didn't take much to bring them out of me, and that wounded my tattered pride – in part because I knew it would trouble Alisha, and I hated that. Just the fact that I suffered along with St. John was enough. I didn't want anyone else to get hurt.

Swallowing hard, I shook my head. "No... thank you."

Alisha was beginning to shiver in the cold air. The warmth of her car was nearby, but the girl wasn't ready to leave yet – I could tell that much. She bit her lip and shifted her weight, hugging my satchel against herself.

"How is he?" Alisha ventured.

All my pent-up fury rose like a wild dragon in my chest, and I suddenly fixed a dark glare on the innocent girl. "Dying," I growled huskily through gritted teeth. "What are you hoping for, a miracle?"

Startled by my venom, Alisha took two steps backwards. "I... I... I... no, yes, I don't know, I just..." Abruptly she spun and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. She was crying.

That did it.

My knees gave out and I sank down to sit on the doorstep, dazed and utterly defeated. I didn't feel as if I had the strength to get back inside. I couldn't comfort Alisha now: Even if I'd had the emotional capacity to go to her and give her a hug, the possibility of passing on the Legacy Virus prevented me from getting close to her.

_I'm just as helpless to soothe Alisha as I am to save St. John. _

All of this crashed down on me as I sat in the midst of my life's rubble. My whole world had crumbled around me in the space of a week.

A long silence fell. The sounds of morning were all around us, yet somehow far removed: The soft rush of traffic on the roadways, the hum of a lawnmower three doors down, the laughter of children heading for the school bus stop on the street corner. The smell of freshly-cut grass wafted heavy in the morning air, along with the normal congestion from the busy metropolis that was New York City.

The sounds melted into an indistinguishable swirl until I fell into a dark void. Sights, sounds, smells, and emotions were all locked outside, where nothing could touch my broken heart and kill me. Darkness closed over me, and I registered nothing more.

As if from far away, I was dimly aware of a gentle hand on my shoulder, and a voice was speaking; but I couldn't make out the words. It was the lifting of the basket beside me, along with the last part of the murmured sentence, that jolted me out of my stupor.

"I'll just take this inside and set it on the counter," Alisha was saying.

The dark void vanished. Instantly awake, my hand shot out and latched onto the redhead's wrist. "No!" I choked, staring up at her in panic. "You can't."

"Yes I can, and I will." Alisha was staring down at me with green eyes that had turned to steel, and I suddenly knew that there was more to this slender, amiable girl than first met the eye. In a battle of wills, Alisha could give me a run for my money on a good day, I realized as I gazed wonderingly at her. And today was _not_ a good day. In my current condition, I didn't stand a chance.

"If... if you go in there," I faltered in one last bid for the other girl's cooperation, "you can't go back."

"I know that."

"It's wasted effort."

"You don't believe that."

"There's nothing you can do..."

"There's nothing you can do either." Alisha flipped her wrist free of my weak grasp, and I suddenly felt even more helpless than before. "You made your decision, and I'm making mine. Do you plan to sit out here and pout all day, or are you going to help me fix breakfast?"

I started to answer that I wasn't hungry and neither was St. John, but the words died inside of me. I was a little confused. Was I hallucinating, or had kind-hearted, laughing, friendly Alisha actually spoken sharply to me? Why was she doing this? It was utter lunacy. It was suicide, even. I wished I'd had the strength to at least attempt a formidable argument and convince her to stay out; I wished still more for the strength to physically stop her. And I had neither. My thoughts floundered like a dinghy lost in a stormy ocean. It hurt to think. It hurt to feel. All I knew was that I teetered on the brink - of sanity, of survival; and the slender white hand that came down to me was a lifeline of sorts - even if it were only a temporary rescue.

I took it.

With surprising strength, Alisha pulled me to my feet, then staggered sideways as I wearily collapsed on her slim shoulder. Dizziness swept over me and clouded my vision with gray-black spots.

I struggled to right myself. "I'm sorry," I mumbled, choking down a sniffle. I couldn't believe how pathetically weak I was.

Alisha pulled me against her. "Easy, Violar. Let me just get you inside."

Wrapping one arm firmly around me and holding the basket in the other, Alisha opened the door and escorted us back into the house.

Once in the entryway, some of my inherent pride surfaced and I drew away from Alisha long enough to check on St. John. He was still sleeping, seemingly. I padded to his side and leaned over him, studying the rhythm of his breathing. His condition was predictably unchanged, but I had the strangest sense that he was actually awake.

Then again, my sanity was in question.

With a little sigh of disappointment, I straightened and found Alisha watching St. John, chewing her lower lip with some apprehension. Catching my eyes, she snapped to and marched off to the kitchen. I trailed meekly behind.

Once there, the energetic Elastica started such a flurry of activity that I was sucked straight into the vortex. In moments I had my sleeves rolled up and was chopping fruit into bits and pieces on a cutting board while bacon sizzled in a pan and the decrepit toaster played host to twin slices of wheat bread. I hardly knew how it'd happened. My stomach rumbled its approval at the symphony of aromas.

A small fragment of my spirit surfaced in the midst of the sudden rush - mostly because the smell of burning toast reached my sensitive nose.

Lurching across the kitchen, I popped the lever. An identical pair of black squares sat in the toaster, smoking. Making a face, I waved a hand over my nose while Alisha abandoned her scrambled eggs and turned on the stove fan.

"We're trying to fix _breakfast_, not burn the house down," muttered Alisha, taking the charcoal squares between thumb and forefinger and tossing them into the sink. I gave a halfhearted smile at the joke, then I sighed deeply. A moment later, I returned to the cutting board and resumed my methodical fruit dicing.

"Vi, could you put on some music?"

I blinked at her. Alisha had caught me before I sank too far down into oblivion, but it was still an effort to focus on her request.

"Um… sure."

Abandoning my fruit, I turned on the clock radio.

_I am a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves._

_I keep my lamp lit, to warn the sailors on their way._

_I'll tell a story, paint you a picture from my past._

_I was so happy, but joy in this life seldom lasts._

I sighed at the verse's final line as I returned to my cutting board. _Story of my life, lighthouse._

And so the lighthouse told its sad tale.

_I had a keeper, he helped me warn the ships at sea._

_We had grown closer, 'til his joy meant everything to me._

_And he was to marry, a girl who shone with beauty and light._

_They loved each other, and with me watched the sunsets into night._

_She'd had to leave us, my keeper he prayed for her safe return._

_But when the night came, the weather to a raging storm had turned._

_He watched her ship fight, but in vain against the wild and terrible wave._

_In me so helpless, as dashed against the rock she met her end._

_Then on the next day, my keeper found her washed up on the shore._

_He kissed her cold face, that they'd be together soon he'd swore._

_I saw him crying, watched as he buried her in the sand._

_And then he climbed my tower, and off of the edge of me he ran._

_And the waves crashing around me, the sand slips out to sea._

_And the winds that blow remind me, of what has been, and what can never be._

_I am a lighthouse, worn by the weather and the waves._

_And though I am empty, I still warn the sailors on their way._

I stared at two halves of an apple I'd split down the middle. It was a dreadful story. I decided, then and there, that I hated that song.

"Did you finish chopping, Violar? I'm ready to start cooking the potatoes."

"Er…" I gulped, then guided my knife blade back to the apple. Either my mind was playing tricks on me, or the freshly-washed potatoes sitting at one side of the cutting board hadn't been there a few moments ago. "Um… I'll have them done in a minute, Alisha. Sorry I'm slow…"

"No," she interjected quickly. "You're doing fine work, Vi. I'll peel the onion while you finish, and then you can chop it – along with that fresh broccoli. I can't wait until you try the baby Portobello mushrooms. I'm so glad they were on sale…"

As I chopped a growing mountain of fruits, and then vegetables, into neat cubes and slices, I lost track of what was going on around me. I was, however, dimly aware of movement in the living room, and I distantly realized that St. John was awake. My body tensed in anticipation of the wrenching cries that would shortly follow.

But they didn't come. That, more than anything, woke me up.

Frowning, I sliced through a thick potato, laying the halves flat and chopping them into neat strips, then cubes, in the first preparatory stages of fried potatoes. But all my senses were straining toward the living room. The ancient stairs creaked and protested, and my knife paused, sticking out of a potato like the Sword in the Stone. _He probably just has to use the bathroom,_ I told myself...

_But why hadn't he made a single sound? Not one moan or whimper or..._

Something was either very good, or very wrong. An awful feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. Some animals, at the point of death, could no longer feel anything. They just fell into a kind of numb, passive state and drifted into oblivion. It was a condition Narnian healers were all too familiar with, and I shivered.

St. John hadn't called for me... which was normal; he hadn't said much in the last few days, and I knew he wouldn't call to me if he thought he was about to die. But I wouldn't have put it past him to crawl away and die alone...

_I can't let that happen._

I pushed myself away from the counter, leaving my knife stuck in the potato.

"Violar?" Alisha inquired after me. "Where are you going?"

"I'll... I'll be right back," I muttered absently, moving out of the kitchen and climbing the stairs. Something was very wrong. I could feel it like a glacier in my stomach. Sick with dread, I walked down the narrow hallway, twisting my hands together. The walls felt as if they were closing in on me.

The bathroom door was wide open. I peered tentatively inside, my sharp ears already telling me what my eyes confirmed a second later: It was empty.

I bit my lip, my gaze shifting to the bedroom door at the end of the hallway. It was half-closed.

Afraid of what I might find inside, I slowly moved down the hall and raised a trembling hand to nudge the door open a little wider. My eyes roved from one side of the room to the other.

I didn't see him anywhere, at first.

"St. John?" I called in a soft, shaky voice, my stomach quivering as chills rushed down my spine. _Where is he?_

"St. John?"

There was a slight metallic click. I froze.

Slowly I turned my head, and my heart stopped. St. John was standing by his dresser with his back to me, pressing a black barrel against his head.

For a split-second, I was paralyzed with sheer horror. I knew that weapon. It was a gun – the same weapon that had shot a hole through Angel's wing.

"No!"

A desperate cry tore from my throat as I dove across the room, leaping for his hand - and the gun. We fell onto the bed. I landed on my stomach and bounced on his mattress, but I had it: I seized the weapon, and his hand, and jerked it sharply away from his head, causing his finger to tighten against the trigger. It pulled.

There was an explosion that shattered my senses.

_Oh God… Oh Aslan…_

My senses reeled. My ears rang. I couldn't tell if I'd been hit… or St. John… if I'd been too late…


	22. The Gates of Hell

Somehow I managed to hold onto the gun. And I wasn't hit.

When I felt St. John fighting me for possession of the gun, I suddenly knew he hadn't been hit, either.

With a snarl, I tore the weapon out of his hands and somersaulted to the head of his bed, shaking and desperate. My head still echoed from the gunshot, the gun barrel was hot from being recently fired, and the air was thick with bits of plaster and chalky white dust.

I stared in horrified shock as St. John rolled off the foot of the bed with remarkable strength and vigor. He bounded to his feet and flung his fist toward me in a practiced motion.

But no fireball emerged from his hand. The lighter was still under the couch – where I'd hidden it.

St. John turned a scalding blue-eyed glare on me, then looked around as if trying to find something. I could only stare at him, quivering all over and clutching the gun close. Only moments before, he'd been little more than a terminally ill invalid reduced to helpless screaming fits on the couch. Now he stood before me, a strangely powerful and dangerous skeleton of a man, with open sores sprinkled all over his bare chest and arms. If I hadn't been by St. John's side throughout this entire ordeal, I'd have sworn I was looking at some nightmarish, inhuman beast – like the Phantom of the Opera, unmasked.

And he was infuriated about the loss of his lighter. He glared at me, then glanced up at the dusty, cobwebbed light fixture on his ceiling. An idea ignited in his burning eyes, and before I could even imagine what was going through his mind, St. John darted to the wall and flipped the switch.

The lightbulb lit up. Then it exploded.

The sparks leapt straight into St. John's waiting hands. He cupped his fingers, then suddenly opened his hands. Blue flames danced in his palms.

And when he looked at me, his eyes were no longer blue. They were red – like the eyes of the fire centaur, staring at me with fearsome intelligence and burning hatred. He stood perfectly still, letting the flames dance in his palms, and the tension scorched my nerves. The way he looked at me was petrifying. I saw death and destruction in those eyes – and murder.

Swallowing hard at a parched throat, I looked from the blue fireballs burning in St. John's hands to his blank stare, and the menace of it all sent my Danger Sense screaming to painful levels - as if the fact that he, who had tenderly held me in his arms a few days ago, was now staring at me as if he meant to kill me weren't bad enough.

"What's going on up there?"

Fear gripped my heart, and my stomach turned to ice. I'd forgotten all about Alisha. I heard small, tentative footsteps starting up the stairs, and I held perfectly still, praying St. John wouldn't hear…

"Violar? Are you okay? I thought I heard a gunshot."

The moment his head turned toward the doorway, I knew my prayers were in vain. My heart pounded like war drums.

"Alisha," I called in a low, hard-edged voice, though my eyes never left St. John. "Leave, now."

"But...!"

I had to make her understand. I funneled greater ferocity into my tone and gritted my teeth, glaring at St. John as I annunciated carefully - deliberately. "Leave… the house… _now_, Alisha."

Everything went quiet on the stairs. But I didn't hear retreating footsteps, and I knew Alisha was still there.

St. John's terrifying gaze swung back to me. I sat on his bed, holding the warm gun between sweating palms and watching him. Every muscle in my body was tense, and adrenaline kicked my instincts into a higher level – into survival mode. But still I searched for a spark of recognition somewhere in his red eyes. He _was_ in there somewhere, wasn't he?

"St. John," I pleaded in a soft voice, shaking my head slightly. "Don't do this."

He didn't hear me.

He separated his hands and held them out to either side, taking a blue flare in each palm and fueling them into thick blue pillars of fire that nearly touched the ceiling. His sweaty, sore-riddled chest rose and fell over his protruding bone structure, and my Danger Sense flooded with a wild, furious joy. St. John's red eyes widened as he gloried in his powers, looking like some horrible mythical god of fire and vengeance.

Only the man in front of me was very real.

"St. John," I whispered again.

Before I could say another word, the fire grew a blazing color of golden-red as he flung one of his hands in my direction. Flames raced toward me like a dragon unleashed.

I dove out of the way – a second too late. Heat engulfed my legs. I heard myself scream. I crashed into the wall and dropped to the floor, rolling back and forth on the dirty carpet and crying out as pain seared my skin. My skirt – my skirt was on fire. My claustrophobia roared to life: I was trapped in the narrow ditch formed between the wall and St. John's bed.

I heard Alisha scream downstairs. As clearly as if I'd seen it happening, my Danger Sense translated the panic I felt from her and the violent rage I felt from St. John into images in my mind: He sent flames streaking down the stairs, and they darted after Alisha like firebirds – wild and free and devouring everything in their path. My sense of Alisha's emotions grew fainter, obliterated by the thick darkness that was St. John. Then it vanished altogether.

_Oh Aslan… Aslan, please let her be alive…_

I groaned and whimpered, then bit my lip, trying to make as little noise as possible. Tears rolled down my cheeks: My legs hurt _so_ badly. I tried to stop writhing and hid my face in the carpet, which stank of dust and old laundry. My claustrophobia was battling furiously inside of me, and my harsh breaths came short as my heart slammed in my chest. I felt the tatters of my skirt smoldering over my blistered skin.

A sickening chill swept over me and my brain went numb. I was going into shock.

My shaking hands tightened into fists. _Maybe, if I hide here, he won't find me…_

A dark shadow fell over me. I couldn't stifle a gasp of horror, and I stopped breathing.

I slowly looked up to find a familiar pair of sock-clad feet standing near by head. My mouth went dry. I was trapped.

_Oh Aslan… This is it. I'm going to die._

Terror shook my soul to the roots. _I'm going to die. He's going to kill me._

A violent shudder wracked my body, and I was suddenly aware of a distant crackling and the thickness of the air around me. It smelled acrid and harsh. The house… the house was on fire. Feeding off of St. John's insanity, the blaze consumed the house timbers with unusually vicious speed. I knew then that the staircase was in flames, and I was stuck on the second floor with a madman. Unless I could somehow make it to the window and take a desperate leap, there was no other way out.

_I'm going to die…_

I stared at St. John's socks. He was waiting – probably savoring the rush of ultimate power in that moment.

Suddenly, a strange sense of calm flooded through me. I was going to die. But I'd known, somehow, all along, that I wouldn't make it through this alive. I'd known it from the moment I'd kissed St. John for the first time, when I'd seen the future as nothing but a confused explosion of images that all ended in flames. Nothing mattered anymore - nothing but the mutant in front of me, the man who was going to kill me.

The man I loved.

I was not going to die lying down like that. I'd fought in too many wars and had lived through them all. I had endured unspeakable hardships in Narnia and in lands beyond. I'd been starved, shot, ambushed, stabbed, deeply grieved, incapacitated by dark magic, kidnapped, locked in dungeons, exhausted to the point of death, freezing cold, scorched by desert heat, and scarred. I was not about to fall... not like this. _Not like this..._

For a moment I lowered my head, a violent tremor rippling through my whole body as I gathered the last of my courage. I would need it – just this one last time. Then I took a deep breath and pushed myself onto my knees, almost crying out from the shock of pain reverberating through my raw nerves. My body was broken, my spirit was shattered, and my heart had been torn in two.

But I could do this. _I have to do this…_

Biting my lip hard, I set my hand on the blackened mattress and straightened until I was kneeling before St. John, lifting my chin and squaring my shoulders with every last ounce of centaurian pride I possessed. I raised my eyes and held St. John's fiery red stare, vaguely aware of the hot tears running down my cheeks. For an instant, time stopped.

My love was stronger than anything St. John could do to me.

I knew so many things about St. John. I knew he'd killed without remorse. He'd committed horrible atrocities against humanity without a second thought, and his conscience, hardened against compassion and guilt, felt little anymore.

But I knew that the Legacy Virus had played its hideous role in his life. I also knew that, deep down, St. John was still as vulnerable as he'd been when he was a teenage boy who'd accidentally killed his father. The inner torment he'd put himself through afterwards must have been unbearable. No wonder he locked that away. St. John was blind - purposely blind - to what was in his heart, because he was afraid to find out.

But I knew. I had seen his heart. Inside of St. John was someone beautiful, and I'd had the slightest glimpse of it the first night we'd met. The man I'd kissed was the _real_ St. John – stripped of guilt and hatred, uninhibited by malicious viruses lurking within his cells.

I'd have given anything to see him again now, just one last time.

As I stared intently into St. John's red eyes, that hope died. It was too late. Insanity had taken over, and all his violent tendencies had surfaced with a vengeance. Like so many of his victims before, I was going to die by his flames.

Except this time, he had no control over this. I desperately wanted him to know that I didn't hold anything against him; that I would have readily forgiven him every transgression, no matter how awful...

Tears streamed down my cheeks. Flames ate into the house around us and smoke billowed along the ceiling behind St. John.

_I need you to know, St. John. I need you to understand…_

How very fragile life was! We'd had just one chance that night, and how glad I was that I'd taken it! Otherwise neither of us would have ever known the truth of his soul.

Reaching out a trembling hand, I touched his knee. "St. John," I forced out in a hoarse whisper, staring at him with determined trust. "I love you."

I lifted my chin still higher, kneeling before him with the last of courage and bracing for the end.

St. John was almost in a trance, and his movements were slow and difficult. He looked down at my hand on his knee, then back into my eyes. Then he slid his leg backwards – just enough that my fingers fell away from him.

I gulped as he lifted his empty hand toward my face, and a shudder ran through me. But I bravely held his stare, just waiting to see what he would do.

Shock ricocheted through my body when St. John set a stream of flame free near my cheek. I shuddered and a soft gasp escaped my parted lips as wild fear, for one moment, flared to life inside of me. Tears rained down my pale, stricken face.

_Why are you doing this to me?_

A slow, lazy smile curved St. John's lips as I trembled before him. He was _enjoying_ my terror.

Anger surged inside of me. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of my fear. I wouldn't give in to fear of him – not even if the heat flowing just inches from my skin was hot enough to sizzle and evaporate my tears. My hair was starting to catch – I could feel it growing hotter against my back. But I made no move to stop it.

Balling my fists, I glared determinedly up at St. John. _Do your worst._

One of the flames flicked at my chin, and I caught my breath at the sharp pain. Then his hand left my face, and he drew back, gathering an enormous fireball between his palms.

_Oh Aslan…_

The red sphere of fire swirled madly, faster and faster as it grew, until suddenly St. John hurled it at me. I gasped and shut my eyes tightly.

I felt the intense heat right before it slammed into my body.

The force of the fireball picked me up and threw me into the wall and nightstand. I felt wood and a glass lamp crunch beneath my back. A host of stars and blotches exploded behind my eyes and icy heat rushed over me. Everything went black, and I felt myself falling…

Shaking convulsively, I woke up choking on the carpet, crying in pain that refused to dissipate. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see – the fireball's brilliance had blinded me. My whole body hurt as if I'd broken all my bones, and I had burns everywhere. The whole room was in flames, and the smoke pouring over the ceiling and along the walls swept around me like some horrible beast intent on consuming all life. My vision reluctantly cleared, but everything was blurry and red.

Agony crashed into me, and I screamed. I twisted and writhed in helpless misery. There were no thoughts anymore – only tormented screams. I couldn't stop screaming. The whole world was an inferno, and I was in hell.

Searing pain. Violent, roaring flames. Oppressive darkness closing in all around me. I was living in the midst of death itself, and I wondered – through the red fog and the smoke in my mind – if I were dead already, and if hell was exactly where I'd ended up.

I screamed until I ran out of breath to scream.

Lifting a quavering hand before my face, I was shocked to find it completely black. I couldn't tell if it was an illusion because of my poor eyesight, or if I really were burnt that badly.

Then I dropped my hand. I didn't want to know.

I tried to move. An electric shock jolted my entire body, and I froze, whimpering. The tears running down my face were a welcome source of cooling liquid on my scorched cheeks, but the salt stung my open wounds. With great effort, I lifted my glazed eyes to the ceiling, which I couldn't see; a roiling black cloud of smoke hovered over me like a malicious dragon, swooping ever lower to devour me as my life ebbed away.

_I'm dying… alone._

Terror gripped me, and I cried out for help.

A scream answered me. St. John's scream.

I was terrified of him; he'd caused me this agony. It was only a matter of time before he came back and finished what he'd started. But rational thought departed me, and only instinct remained: An instinct that, in its raw fear, was more terrified of dying alone than facing an insane mutant with the ability to control fire.

I whimpered. _I'm coming… Hold on…_

Driven by sheer need alone, I inched forward, sobbing from pain and fear. But all my being strained to reach St. John's side. I couldn't see through the darkness – smoke and flames were all around me now – so I relied on my Danger Sense for direction. I crawled with painstaking slowness over the narrow strip of floor between the charred wall and the flaming mattress...

I reached the end of the mattress... and that's when I lifted my head. Dimly I made out St. John's writhing form amid smoke and flame, and near me was one of his feet.

_He's dying, too. Aslan…_

I moved forward again, crying out like a wounded animal, until I drew even with his knee. Dropping onto my burnt shoulder, I wrapped both arms around his knee, clinging to it like a foal. I had no intention of letting go, no matter what. Burrowing my face against the charred material of his pants, I let the rest of my body go limp, and I wept without strength or will to check the tears.

"Violar…"

I choked and coughed on the smoke. Slowly, I lifted my head. Had I imagined the soft voice over the crackling roar of the fire?

I didn't move, at first. My time in the Calormene desert had taught me that wishful thinking blurred the line between reality and hallucinations. But then his leg jerked slightly in my grasp. Amid the boiling, murderous rage and the darkness permeating my Danger Sense, other tendrils of emotion pushed through: Fear of the unknown – of being alone – and frantic desperation to find me.

With a soft whimper, I blinked the fog from my eyes, and a picture of St. John's face swirled into view. Was it true? Wearily I shook the haze from my mind.

"St. John?" I choked out softly.

And then his eyes found mine. They were blue.

I had to go to him.

Releasing my grip on his knee, I braced my raw forearms against the carpet and drug my protesting body – inch by agonizing inch – until at last I reached St. John's side. I dropped down again, exhausted. I felt so... horrible, all over, and I just wanted a little comfort - that was all.

A violent coughing fit wracked my lungs. Once my breathing steadied again, I gazed up at St. John rather dully.

"St. John," I whispered. Scooting just a little closer, I lifted a trembling hand and set it shakily against his chest, but I didn't dare touch him more than that.

His blue-eyed gaze locked with mine. They were full of suffering, and his body was struggling in its final moments, but a strange intensity burned in his eyes.

He lifted a weak hand and gently covered mine. I flinched at the touch – it felt like fire against my burnt skin – but it sent a deeper shockwave straight into my heart.

He opened his mouth, struggling to form words. There was something he desperately wanted to tell me.

"I… love you, Violar."

I stopped breathing.

Knowing that he loved me and hearing him say it were two very different things. My eyes welled with tears, but they were tears of happiness, and my pain receded under pure elation – under the sheer joy of knowing that my life, that I myself, had meant something to someone else… to someone who had become as special to me as I was to him. Such a softness and a sweet sense of peace flooded through me that a quivering smile touched my lips.

St. John saw it – he'd been searching my face intently – and his features relaxed enough that he managed to smile back at me.

That one moment could have lasted for all eternity – another wrinkle in time. I saw the tears running down his face, just like they poured down mine: Tears of pain and joy, of finding and losing… and of love.

And then his body seized up. His hand gripped mine, and his eyes pleaded with me, plainer than if he'd spoken aloud.

_Don't leave me…_

Suddenly his blue eyes rolled back and closed. He collapsed on the floor, and his hand slipped away from mine.

He was gone.

"St. John…" I choked down a sob, gazing at his lifeless, peaceful face.

I'd done it. It was finished. I'd helped St. John get home.

Triumph filled my veins: I'd snatched him from the gates of hell. Love had saved him. Death would have no hold on him, now. The pain tearing through my body told me that very soon, it would conquer all – then lose its grip on me, too.

Moving my hand slowly to the back of St. John's hair, I gently drew his head against my shoulder and put my trembling, charred arms around him. I stroked and caressed him, then held perfectly still – just holding him close.

My world slowed down and a strange calm enveloped me. All the struggles of life wouldn't matter anymore. It was almost... a relief. All my life, for forty-four years, I'd been fighting to do one thing or another - running away, chasing impossible dreams, facing my fears, fighting for what I believed in. So much failure, so little success... that was the story of my life. So much seemed unwritten, still.

But the last page had come.

Suddenly all the tragedies and triumphs of my life began to make sense: All those lost, lonely roads had led me to St. John, and to that one bittersweet, beautiful night where more tragedies and triumphs had brought us together. This is how I wanted to die... in his arms.

For one long moment, I gazed at the flames consuming the world and the smoke billowing overhead; but it all seemed so far away, and I couldn't hear the angry roar anymore. It was as if I existed in a bubble. Fear had no hold on me. There was only love... only love.

_I love you too, St. John... more than you know._

Resting my cheek against his, I let my eyes close, and I sighed out my final breaths with a little smile on my lips. I felt the world slipping away from me, and my soul seemed to lift out of my burnt body as my life faded. I felt as light as a feather – as if I could fly. Forever awaited me, St. John awaited me, and a blaze of white light pierced the black smoke boiling above me.

Then everything went dark.


	23. Aslan's Country

There was nothing.

What it was, to cease to exist, was a great peaceful ocean of nothingness. I felt my soul come loose and depart into that eternal sea, leaving my empty body behind in a world of smoke and flame and agony and loss.

I was eclipsed by total darkness. But it was a comforting, tangible darkness that wrapped around me like a warm blanket of sweet oblivion. I sank deep into the void and reveled in the fullness of empty space. All my senses were more alive than they'd ever been, and each one flooded over until I could hardly hold another drop of the incredible experience that nothingness was.

There was no time. I could see nothing, but I could feel _everything. _I simply _was_. The world, with all its broken dreams and dissatisfying temporal accomplishments, fell away like shingles off a roof.

And I was free: Unfettered, unhindered, with nothing to hold me back. I stood at the edge of the unknown and spread my own wings, ready to fly away free. It was everything I'd always dreamed of, ever since I had seen the eagle soar when I was a younger foal and had leapt from a cliff to follow him. At last, the realm of sky and wind belonged to me.

I paused a moment before lifting off, as if uncertain... as if there was, indeed, something that held me back. What was it? I _wanted_ this. St. John was waiting for me. I had to let go.

But let go of what? There was nothing for me to hold onto.

I stayed for another moment, longing to claim eternity – feeling it call to my soul. My parents. St. John. All the warriors of Narnia who had fought beside me and died for freedom's sake. Aslan himself. All of us together in perfect harmony, forever; never to be separated again.

I hesitated a moment too long.

And then... a pinpoint of white light shot painfully into my darkness. I tried to flinch away from it, but it grew with forceful persistence, pushing the shadows farther into the edges of my consciousness and drawing me into its glaring heart. I cried, but I had no voice to cry. I struggled to resist it, but I had no strength to struggle. The fierce whiteness moved towards me like a spotlight, searching. It grew in size and power until suddenly it engulfed me with blinding brilliance. I was helpless to lift my hand and shield my eyes, and it seared through my vision and straight into my mind.

With its entry came pain - such unbearable pain... and I felt myself slipping backwards.

_No! No, no, no!_

I couldn't fight the current. It was stronger than the Maelstrom was purported to be, and it sucked me backwards while I was helpless to fight. Even if I'd had all my strength, I would have been powerless against that mighty pull.

A warm, gentle breeze touched my face.

I drew a soft breath. My lungs hurt like fire, and I gave a weak cough and a tiny cry. If there had been tears left in my body, they would have poured down my cheeks. But there was nothing.

My lips felt chapped, and they trembled and parted with another weary, miserable whimper that was barely audible even to my own ears. Thin slivers of sunlight appeared between my lashes, and I caught a glimpse of golden sunlight streaming through translucent, though blurry, white feathers.

All at once, I smiled, weary and content.

_Heaven..._

I knew now that there were angels in heaven – in Aslan's Country.

But the pain... There was supposed to be no pain... And there was such pain that I was paralyzed by the intensity of it.

The white feathers moved as if in slow motion – back and forth, back and forth. Then they swept across the blue sky and off to my right, and they disappeared from my range of vision.

I thought I heard someone crying.

I took a deeper breath – than another. With each small lungful of air came greater agony and a feeling of strength that gradually increased, like the ebb and flow of the ocean coming in as the tide rose. The pain that had consumed my senses began to recede, and I realized that my senses were duller than they'd been in the void. The dullness was more familiar to me.

My fingers twitched. I blinked, and my vision began to clear. I could feel my body – arms, legs, hands, feet, and a very light head. New life surged inside of me, and the last remnants of pain dissipated until I could breathe – full, unhindered breaths of air with only a slight, raspy undercurrent.

I was looking up at a pure blue sky. A few cottony puffs of clouds rolled into view. Judging by the position of the sun, it was late afternoon.

_They have afternoon in heaven, too?_

I suddenly wondered what a sunset in heaven looked like. I couldn't wait to find out. Then I was puzzled by the quality of the air, which smelled smoggy and metallic and congested – just like New York City.

It wasn't quite the way I'd imagined Aslan's Country would smell.

My thoughts were interrupted by a heartbroken male sob.

A slight frown wrinkled my brow. Then I turned my head, and a soft gasp escaped me.

Sitting on a stone ledge, with his back to me and his long white wings drooping, was Angel himself. And he was crying.

I groaned softly and let my heavy eyelids close. _What is Angel doing here? Did he die, too?_

My heart skipped a beat. I was thrilled. I hoped his death hadn't been painful or particularly traumatic, but I was so glad he was here. I'd missed him so much…

Then I felt a pang of guilt: St. John. I'd given my love to St. John. This was going to be one very awkward reunion…

And I was tired – completely exhausted. I wanted to sleep for a month or two. Heaven could wait: It was eternal, and it wasn't going anywhere. But maybe, by then, I could figure out what to tell…

_Wait a minute._

I opened my eyes again, focusing on the dejected form of the man I loved. His muscular shoulders were shaking, and he had covered his face with his hands. His wings quivered with the force of his aching sobs.

_What the—?_

I lifted my dizzy head – and grimaced at the migraine-force pounding in my temples. Something was wrong. _Everything_ was wrong. I looked down at myself – at the ash-colored smudges on my skin and the singed, ruined tatters of what had been a very nice black skirt-and-blouse outfit I'd purchased from Bloomingdale's.

_Bloomingdales?_

Panic crashed into me. _Oh Aslan…_

My voice came out in a frightened squeak and I wrapped my arms around myself, curling into a protective ball. Angel whirled suddenly and froze, staring at me with wide blue eyes.

I stared back at him, hyperventilating and beginning to shake all over.

"Violar," he gasped breathlessly.

I trembled at the way he said my name. "Angel," I managed. I glanced left and right, seeing nothing but sky surrounding a flat stone platform.

_A… a rooftop?_

"Where am I?" I whispered, my voice shaking horribly.

He didn't seem to hear me. His face lit up like the sun itself, and the last of his tears made his blue eyes sparkle like twin sapphires.

"You're alive," he breathed reverently. "Thank God…"

His revelation pierced through me, and the feelings I'd been trying to piece together suddenly snapped into place. _I'm not dead. I'm not dead._

_Oh Aslan…_

"How… come I'm not dead?" I demanded shakily, pulling my arms closer to myself and hugging my knees. I felt so cold – and so exposed. What was left of my clothing was hardly indecent by New York standards, but I was a _Narnian_. A short skirt, an exposed stomach, and sleeves that were torn from both shoulders felt so… well… vulnerable.

I'd been lucky, all things considered. With the fire, and all the burning, my outfit could have been a lot worse. But here I was, barely clinging to the remaining shreds of my dignity, and Aslan knew what I looked like – in front of _Angel,_ of all people.

"Why am I… here?" I pleaded with a nervous gulp. I was thirsty. _Thirsty_, of all things.

Angel was looking at me with shining blue eyes, as if he were beholding a miracle. Slowly he held up his forearms, and a shock rammed into my heart when I saw the fading reddish tracks running up and down his skin.

_His blood… he… he gave me his blood. Healing blood._

_Oh no…_

I lowered my bewildered gaze to my own forearms, which were secured tightly across my chest. The burns, which had been black-edged and bleeding, looked like little more than blotchy, pinkish sores melting into my skin. I touched one of the wounds with shaking fingers. It didn't even smart.

"Aslan… no," I gasped helplessly. My breathing quickened, and I looked up at Angel in horror. "What have you done?"

His wings suddenly flared, conveying the heights of the glorious joy raging inside of him. He gazed at me in wondrous rapture – and profound relief.

"You're alive," was all he could seem to say. A laugh bubbled from his chest – a crazy laugh interrupted by sobs of fierce emotion. "Violar… Violar… you're alive. I almost lost you."

Panic swept through my blood. He took a step towards me with his arms outstretched, and terror gripped me. I suddenly scrambled to my feet, backing unsteadily away. My balance was a lost cause, and I nearly fell over, throwing my arms out to catch myself.

It didn't help. I toppled ungracefully to the stone ground, then scuttled backwards.

"Don't come any closer!" I cried, frightened beyond all reason. I huddled against the stone ledge and wrapped my arms around my stomach, shivering and trying to keep one eye on Angel while searching wildly for an avenue of escape.

There was only sky stretching in every direction I could see.

Angel stopped and looked at me, puzzled. One wing shifted downward, giving him a comically lopsided look.

"Violar," he said more softly. Then he crouched down in front of me, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He spoke as if soothing a child. "It's alright, love. Everything is alright now." He choked on that statement, but he was smiling in a beautiful way that squeezed my heart. "Everything is going to be just fine. I got to you just in time, thanks to your friend Alisha."

_Alisha._ I frowned, struggling with fragments of memory – painful memory that seared my brain so badly that I tried to push everything away. _Who is she again?_

_My friend. My… my best friend. That's right._

The last thing I remembered… _Oh God._

"Is she alright?" I cried, looking up at Angel.

He nodded, smiling euphorically. "Yeah, she's fine. She came speeding up to the mansion, and I flew here, and I found you in… in St. John's bedroom."

Was I imagining things, or did his expression darken ever so slightly?

_St. John. By the mane…_

"St. John!" I cried, gripped by panic again. I climbed to my feet – and fought to stay up this time. I stumbled toward the ledge, gripped the stones, and looked down.

What I saw wrenched a desperate cry from my chest.

The street, several stories below, was a mess – littered with fire trucks and cars with flashing red and blue lights and men running back and forth in yellow striped jackets, hauling hoses and spraying water at the smoking black ruins of St. John's house. Clusters of people were everywhere, taking in the spectacle. And not all of them looked too unhappy about this turn of events.

The house looked horrible – a burned-out shell of a place. I'd seen pictures in this world of various structures that had been bombed, and that's exactly how St. John's house looked.

"Now don't…" Angel's voice hesitated behind me. "Do me a favor and don't get too close to the edge, Violar. I saved you once, but I'm running a little low." He breathed a sheepish, self-deprecating chuckle at his lame attempt at a jest.

Flames exploded in my heart. I whirled on him – and tried to stay focused when he spun from one side of my warped vision to the other.

"Where… where's St. John?"

Angel pursed his lips and looked down.

I choked at a rising sob in my throat. An awful sense of dread crashed down on me. Bitter shame flooded my Danger Sense.

"Where is he?" I cried, nearly hysterical. "Did you… didn't you save him, too?"

Angel shut his eyes and clenched his jaw. "I'm sorry," he said very quietly.

A startled gasp escaped my throat, and I whirled again to stare in dawning horror at the blackened wreck of what had once been a dilapidated house. St. John was dead. He'd died, fully expecting me to join him, and now he was every bit as alone as I was.

I'd _promised_ that I wouldn't leave him. I'd broken my promise.

Suddenly I turned back to Angel, scowling in fury.

"Why didn't you save him!"

Angel stepped back and raked a hand through his blond hair, avoiding my gaze. "I tried, Violar. I really tried." He looked up at me then, his blue eyes shadowed with depression. "I… I can't lift two people at the same time. I barely got you out of there before the second floor caved." He slowly shook his head. "Even then, I was… almost too late." He shuddered.

I stared at him in furious disbelief, feeling hot tears well in my eyes. I covered my face with my hands, glaring at Angel through the spilling tears of agony and rage.

"Why didn't you save him!"

Angel was slowly shaking his head, and he came towards me with a pleading expression on his face, holding out his hands to me. "I'm so sorry, Violar. Please… You have to understand. I didn't have time. I had to make a choice—"

"Then why did you choose me? Why!"

I doubled over as if I'd been punched in the gut. Anguish crushed my lungs as I wept aloud, utterly devastated. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. I was still alone. And St. John… He was separated from me, now. He couldn't reach me, and I couldn't reach him. What would happen when he found out that I broke my promise?

Gentle, comforting hands settled onto my bare shoulders, softly rubbing over the newly-healed skin through the torn blouse. "Hey, easy, Violar. Take it easy. You've had a terrible shock—"

Something inside of me snapped. I put both hands on his stomach and shoved him away.

"You have _no_ idea what I've been through," I snarled at him in passionate anguish, scowling through my streaming tears. "You weren't there. You don't know… you know _nothing_… because you haven't been here – you haven't been anywhere."

He sighed, running his hands through his hair. "I know, Violar. I haven't been around. I'm a terrible friend. I'm sorry…"

"You're sorry?" I demanded, sniffling fiercely. I dashed away angry tears, but they were quickly replaced. "_Now_ you're sorry? It's too late for that! Why couldn't you just leave me alone!"

His blue eyes came up to mine, genuinely startled. "Um, what? I just saved your life, Vi." He chuckled dryly. "I hardly think this is the time to quibble over—"

"You pulled me back!" I snarled, my fury rising. I shook my fist at him. "You had _no right!_ Everything was the way it was supposed to be and _you pulled me back!_"

He blinked. "Uh… pulled you back from… what, exactly?"

"Death!" I roared at him. I sagged against the low ledge, glaring daggers at the winged mutant and panting heavily. "I was _dead!_ You had no right to pull me back. Who do you think you are, Aslan? Or God? You think you can just snap your fingers and decide who lives and who dies?"

His jaw fell open. "Uh, Violar, you're not sounding very rational."

"Rational?" I gasped, outraged. "You want me to be _rational_ at a time like this? You ruined everything!" I threw my hands in the air. "How dare you come here and use me just to… to foster your own faltering sense of self-worth and, and goodness! I'm… I can't believe you didn't save St. John! That boy… he deserved a second chance!"

His wings suddenly folded up and flattened against his back. "Violar," he said more firmly, "I tried to explain that to you already. What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" I burst out, incredulous. I bared my teeth. "You didn't save him because you _hate_ him!"

Angel looked completely shocked. "_Whaaat?_"

My voice was temporarily submerged under a fresh wave of paralyzing tears. They poured down my face as I glared at him. And it was a good thing I couldn't speak, because I was ready to spill everything.

Angel had pulled me from the burning wreckage out of guilt – out of a sense of obligation. He'd given me his blood and saved my life, destroying all my carefully-laid plans – plans I wouldn't have made in the first place if… if only…

_If only._

Angel didn't love me. That's not why he saved me. I was just another victim in distress who needed an angel. And now I was alone, thanks to his actions. St. John was alone, too. What if St. John didn't understand why I didn't wait for him – why I didn't come after him, like I'd said I would?

I heard Angel draw a deep, measured breath. "Violar… you're in shock, and you're not thinking clearly. You don't know what you're saying. You need to come with me. I'll take you back to Xavier's—"

"I know exactly what I'm saying," I cut him off tersely. "You're the one who doesn't know anything. I was dead, Angel. I was crossing over, and you pulled me back. You had no right to play God in my life, and you should have saved St. John!"

"Didn't it occur to you that St. John might have died regardless, because of the Legacy Virus?"

I bared my teeth and snarled like a wounded animal. "What if I have it too, Angel? I'm not going back to the mansion. If I have it, I'll die anyway, but later… and for nothing." I shook my head, glaring at him. "I never asked for this. I didn't… didn't ask you… to come here."

Angel narrowed his eyes. He was beginning to look angry.

"You know, funny you should say that, Violar." His wings snapped open and smashed flat against his back. "A friend of yours by the name of James Bond came by and delivered a message from you. Said simply that you were staying with St. John, who was terminally ill. He had a week to live or something like that. Now, I don't know what went down between you and James Bond—" He held out his hands. "Don't tell me. That's none of my business. But the world's most famous British super spy wasn't looking so hot by the time you were through with him. Now I come here, and I risk my life for you, and you…" He shook his head, blinking at me with an expression of stunned disbelief. "I thought you were better than this. I really did."

All the air left my lungs, and I stared at him, shocked and hurt and completely speechless. The strength left my legs, and I slid down to sit on the rooftop, turning away from Angel.

I couldn't think. The only thing I knew is that I'd failed St. John, and hurt Angel, and betrayed myself. James Bond… I'd forgotten about our conversation, when he'd come to apologize for his bold actions. He'd probably hoped for more than simple reconciliation – and I should have known that. But I'd been so consumed with my own sorrows that I hadn't made sure he was doing alright.

Alisha… I'd put her in harm's way. She could have died. And she'd be lucky if she wasn't carrying the Legacy Virus now, either from exposure to St. John or myself. I remembered that I'd taken St. John to the mansion, endangering everyone there – the people whom I'd called my friends, my family. The people I'd sworn to protect and to serve. Professor Charles Xavier: I'd offered him my sword and pledged to fight for him. I'd let him down, badly.

I leaned my forehead against the cold, harsh stone, overwhelmed and empty and full of so much grief that I couldn't even move. I bit my lip as every breath shortened and became a sob, and I sniffled helplessly.

"Just… go away," I muttered despondently. "Just leave me alone."

I deserved to be alone, after everything I'd done.

"Um…" I heard Angel shuffle his feet, as if he felt awkward. "I can't do that. You're on a rooftop, Violar. You need me to help you get down."

I choked miserably. "I don't need you," I growled into the wall, wishing with all my might that it were true.

Tense silence reigned over the rooftop. A colder wind was blowing: Sunset wasn't far off.

Maybe it was almost sunset in heaven, too. I was going to miss it. Maybe St. John was watching it alone, even now. And I knew how painful it could be to watch the sunset all alone, when the one you loved was so far away.

A violent sob wrenched from my throat. "Just leave me here," I repeated dejectedly, curling slowly into a ball again.

Angel cleared his throat, and I gritted my teeth against a tidal wave of sobs that threatened to sweep me under. The sooner the winged mutant took off and flew away, the better.

"Violar…"

His voice was so soft, so gentle, that it felt as if my heart were being enfolded in a comforting hug. Or maybe that's only how I _wanted_ it to feel. I couldn't tell anymore. Nothing made sense – not reality, not my dreams, and certainly not my feelings. It was too much, and it was all spinning out of control so fast.

I couldn't make it stop. Everything I'd fought for, and even had tried to die for, passed through my fingers like sand: Completely worthless. What was the use? What good had I done? Everything I'd tried to do had gone exactly the opposite direction. It'd have been better if I'd stayed out of everything, and not done anything at all – except that I should have galloped right back to Narnia a long time ago.

The only reason I hadn't returned to Narnia was because I was trying to keep a promise – a promise I'd made to a man who didn't love me.

I put my face against my forearms and burst into tears.

I felt Angel start toward me. "Violar…"

I stood up so hastily that my vision swirled. I brushed wearily at my tears, swaying with the dizziness in my head.

"Don't… I'm fine…"

My heel caught on the ledge, and I lost my balance. My stomach dropped as I tumbled into empty space, and I gave a short scream of terror. My mind reeled. I was falling…

"Violar!"

Through my dazed vision, I caught a glimpse of Angel as he ran onto the ledge, flared his wings, and jumped after me. Strong arms snared me and pulled me into the warmth of his body. I remember struggling fiercely to free myself.

"Let me go… let me go. I don't need you…"

His arms only held me tighter. I heard a rush of sound – like cheering and clapping, probably from the crowd gathered outside St. John's destroyed house. Faintly I realized they were applauding Angel from saving a girl who'd plunged off a roof.

Consciousness collapsed around me, and the swirling in my mind obliterated everything. My struggles against Angel grew weaker, and then I knew no more.


	24. Apple Danish

When I woke up, I found myself staring at the white ceiling of a strange room.

A soft bed was beneath my back, and a warm blanket had been drawn over me. My hair and skin smelled like smoke. Even though I felt no pain or soreness at all – save for a dull ache at the inside of my left elbow – I was exhausted.

But there was no help for my broken heart.

I had nothing left. Everything I was, every last ounce of strength, had been poured into walking St. John home. It had been a war. Most of who I was had gone up in smoke with that fire. All that remained were shattered pieces of a centaur.

I was dead. I had already died. I was _supposed_ to be dead…

Before my eyes could blur too badly from brimming tears, I looked around and took stock of my surroundings. The walls were delicately textured with pale golden-brown earth tones. The room was sparsely decorated with basic furniture – a nightstand next to me with a blue lamp, a table farther away with two chairs, a tall armoire. There were three dark wood doors, all closed. The only painting in the room featured a meaningless collage of bizarrely mismatched colors in a formless splattered design, like a couple of three-year-olds had taken paintbrushes and gone crazy. It almost hurt my head to look at it.

There was a single window on one wall, framed by royal blue curtains. The last light of day was fading beyond the glass, and a lump rose in my throat. Night was fast approaching.

I took a sniff of the air and found familiar scents wafting around me, mingling with the constant aura of smoke surrounding my person. Unless I missed my guess, I was in Xavier's Institute.

Fear gripped my heart. _Oh Aslan. The virus…_

I flung back the blanket and swung my bare feet to the floor: What little remained of my burnt black stockings clung to my calves. Dizziness swept over me, but it wasn't as bad as it had been on the roof, and I put out a hand and leaned on the mattress until it passed.

_The roof. Burnt stockings._ Memories were coming back too fast, and I fought them. I didn't want to remember. I didn't want to think. The sorrow was too much to bear. I just wanted…

I paused. I didn't know what I wanted anymore.

Blinking and sniffling, I cautiously straightened up. My heart was pounding, and I looked down at my ruined clothes with a painful gulp. Oddly enough, there was a Band-Aid stuck to the inside of my left elbow, holding a cotton ball in place, and I wondered why.

_I shouldn't be here. I need to leave…_

A soft knock on the door interrupted me. I turned around just as Alisha entered the room with a tray of food that smelled very good – sweet and sugary. Abruptly she stopped, surprise illuminating her face when she saw me standing there.

"Hey, Vi, you woke up," she greeted me with a gentle smile.

My heart clenched at her kindness, and I turned away, scowling in agony. Then – to my shame and horror – I burst into tears. I covered my face with my hands and doubled over, sobbing.

"Oh, no, don't cry…" I felt her long arms come around me, and I didn't have the strength to resist when she guided me back to bed. I sank onto the mattress and curled up on my side with my back to Alisha, sniffling and hiding my face.

"Shouldn't be here," I managed, gripping the pillow fiercely.

"What? Who shouldn't be here, Vi? You or me?"

I gave my head a little shake, then whimpered pathetically when I felt Alisha's slim fingers stroking my hair. Comforting gestures hurt me worse, somehow.

I struggled to make myself understood through the tears that choked my voice and tumbled down my cheeks. "The… virus… I might have it."

Alisha's small hand moved to my shoulder and rubbed. "You don't have the Legacy Virus, Vi." Her voice was soft, assuring. "Storm took a sample of your blood and tested it, and it came up negative. She talked it over with Jean, and they were thinking that maybe the fire killed the virus. Those flames were a lot hotter than normal, and the fire department had an awful time putting out the blaze. But we don't really know for sure."

That explained the Band-Aid and the cotton ball on my elbow. My heart sank. I couldn't have said why. "What… about you?"

She smiled. "I got a clean bill of health, too."

I bit my lip and sniffled, but I nodded. That was a relief to hear.

"What about… everyone else?"

"Nobody here tested positive for the Legacy Virus, Vi. You don't have to worry anymore. Everything's going to be just fine."

I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded again, though a sob wracked my body. It was the mercy of Aslan that, apparently, the rest of the mutants were safe.

I couldn't call them my family anymore. I wasn't worthy of that.

"What… am I… doing here?" I choked out.

"Oh, Vi." Alisha sighed, and her hands left my shoulder. I heard her pull up a chair and take a seat next to the bed. "What else do you think we were supposed to do with you?"

I tried to keep from sniffling. "You could've… dumped me in the woods."

An incredulous gasp came from the redheaded teenager, followed by an odd chuckle. "That's the weirdest thing you've ever said, Vi. Honestly. Angel said you weren't thinking straight when he brought you in, and I guess maybe he was right."

My heart stopped. My eyes snapped open, and I suddenly rolled over and stared at Alisha in dawning horror. Those white flared wings against the streaming sunlight and the blue sky… a tumble off the roof, Angel jumping after me…

_I fought him? I actually fought him?_

"Angel," I repeated breathlessly, remembering some of the terrible things I'd said to him and the hurt, angry expression on his face. "Where is he?"

Alisha shrugged her thin shoulders. "I don't know."

"Is he upset?"

Her green eyes faltered from mine, and she nodded. "Angel isn't a sunshine – I mean, he's good-looking and bold and kinda hunky and all that, don't get me wrong – but I've never seen him all grumpy thunderclouds like that before. He just sort of… I don't know." She bit her lip, and I knew she wasn't telling me everything.

"He sort of what, Alisha?"

She looked hesitantly at me, than sighed. "I don't know what his problem was, Vi. Something was _really_ wrong with him. He brought you here and everything, but he just acted like… like he couldn't wait to get out of here."

I could read between the lines. Angel had nothing against the mansion. He just couldn't wait to get away from _me._

My heart suddenly weighed like a stone in my chest. _Good going, Violar._

I closed my eyes and groaned – then abruptly twisted away from Alisha as fresh tears forced their way to the surface. I buried my face in the pillow and wept so hard that it hurt.

_What's wrong with me?_

I knew the answer to that. _Everything._

I heard sniffling behind me, and I slowly became aware that Alisha was crying softly. Her hand rubbed tentatively at my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Violar," she whispered. "You've been through… like… ten kinds of, of hell or something over the last few days, and I'm so sorry…"

That did it. I suddenly rolled over and pushed myself up enough to throw Alisha into a fierce hug, mashing my face to her shoulder and holding her so tightly that I felt a twinge of pain in my Danger Sense. Instantly I loosened my grip; I hadn't meant to hurt her. But I couldn't apologize: I was sobbing too violently for words.

I wanted to be alone – because I only knew one way to grieve, and that was alone. But it killed me to know that Alisha was suffering, and I desperately needed to comfort her. I didn't want to cause any more pain to anyone.

For some of the people I'd wounded, like Angel, it was already too late.

Gradually I became aware that Alisha was rocking me back and forth as if I were a child, and she calmed me with soothing little hushes. The tension slowly drained out of my body, leaving me even more tired than before. But at least I was quiet. Except for the occasional sniff. And my mind felt like it resembled the burned-out shell that had been St. John's house.

"There, Vi," Alisha whispered encouragingly. "That's better, that's better. Now, why don't you just lie down for a little while, and I'll fix you a nice bubble bath."

A harsh sniffle escaped me. I didn't bother to open my eyes. "What's a… a bubble bath?" I mumbled dispiritedly.

Alisha gasped. "Oh, you don't know? They're the most wonderful things, Vi. Trust me. Come on, you can let go of me now."

She managed a soft laugh, and I opened my eyes as I released her and retreated with a sheepish, halfhearted smile. That smile melted into a woebegone sigh all too quickly, and I stared down at the blanket. I felt so hopeless.

"It's a good thing I'm not you right now," observed Alisha with a giggle.

Dazed and confused, I looked up at her through bleary eyes. "Doesn't look like much fun, does it."

Her expression softened with sympathy. "That's not what I meant," she replied gently, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "I just meant that if I were you right now, I'd have barked at you for not lying down like I told you to."

I frowned a little and shut my eyes. "Sorry," I muttered, dropping onto the bed.

Alisha brought the blanket over me, then pressed my shoulder. "Naw, don't take it like that. I was only teasing. You're… just sort of like… when you're in Madame Doctor mode, you can act like a drill sergeant, you know, when you're taking care of a patient. It's kind of cute."

I mumbled an incoherent response. I didn't feel like joking. My heart hurt too much, and I just felt dead inside.

"You can sleep, if you want. By the way, what kind of scent would you like? I have orange peach, lavender, mint-eucalyptus, and I think I might have some sort of cherry-vanilla stuff somewhere. Oh, and a kind of cinnamon-maple-brown sugar combination, if you want to come out smelling like a cinnamon roll."

I laid very still. Everything inside of me felt leaden and silent. It was an effort just to breathe, in and out, in and out; and I could have cared less about scent flavors. I could barely even imagine what they smelled like.

"Doesn't matter," I sighed. "You pick."

She touched my shoulder. "You said you liked mint ice cream, right?"

Was that my favorite ice cream flavor? I shuffled through my murky memories. Oh, yes, it was. It seemed so long ago…

"It's alright, I suppose."

"Okay. You're gonna like this flavor, you'll see. Now you can sleep, Vi, or just rest. But stay there, okay? I'll be back in a little bit."

She left the room. I heard the door close softly behind her.

Immediately what little control I had collapsed. I burst into tears again and sobbed and sobbed until my pillow was soaked with a puddle of tears. St. John… Angel… my parents… Aslan… the Professor… Alisha… Kurt Wagner…

_I'd let them all down, badly._

It was overwhelming, the guilt and anguish roiling in my broken soul. I had plenty of both. To sort it all out… I hardly knew where to start.

St. John… I loved him. I'd been determined to love him until the end, and I had – I had done that. But I'd promised that we could be together forever, and I hadn't counted on being pulled back to life at the very last possible instant. Why hadn't I jumped into that sea of nothingness? I'd been right there – only a breath away from eternity… so close that I could have reached out and touched it.

Maybe it wasn't my fault that I was still alive, and that St. John and I were separated; but I didn't want him to be alone… I knew how painful that could be. I didn't want anyone else to suffer that way, and certainly not St. John. Especially not after he'd turned his life around at the last possible moment.

Where was he now? Had he made it to Aslan's Country? I desperately hoped so. If he had failed the ultimate test, if he'd been found unworthy to enter the sacred realm… I'd be desolate when the time came for me to join him.

He loved me. He _loved _me. At the very last, he'd told me so… and now he was gone. Wrenching cries tore through me, and I smothered them in the soaked pillow. St. John was hardly capable of love… and he said he loved me.

Angel's face haunted me.

I was angry with him, I realized. I was angry with him because he didn't return my love. I wished I weren't so angry, but I was, and that truth had come out when I'd been too weak and panicked to maintain the strong front I'd painstakingly built over the past several months. There was no way Angel could have fathomed how I felt, knowing that _his_ blood flowed through my veins, knowing that he'd saved my life at the risk of his own… and yet he didn't love me.

I wanted his blood. I wanted… far more than his blood. Some part of me longed to know that he'd saved my life out of love for me. But living in a dream had just about killed me, and I wanted no more wishes, no more half-realities, no more vain hopes. I wanted…

My mind went blank. I didn't know what I wanted anymore.

The Professor was in Paris, awaiting his final moments with far more grace and serenity than St. John had been afforded by the violent nature of the Legacy Virus. But I was glad Professor Xavier couldn't see me now. I couldn't face him, after all that had happened. I didn't know what he would have said of me.

Why was Alisha taking care of me? I just wanted to be left alone. I didn't need anyone else… I was a warrior.

Yet I felt so weak…

I sniffled and shivered, huddling under my blanket. My eyes were heavy and swollen nearly shut.

Kurt Wagner and Tessa Niles were in Bavaria. I missed them… I would have given a fortune to see Kurt. He'd been through hell many times before. He understood. He would have plenty to say to me – I was sure of that, though I didn't relish the thought of so much disapproval clouding his glowing yellow eyes. But I would have braved even that if I could have just…

I don't know. I just wanted a friend – someone who understood, someone who could make it all better. I was so far beyond help. I knew well that some wounds didn't heal. Kurt couldn't possibly have all the answers to the questions in my soul. There were too many questions, too many complications… It was impossible. I was trapped.

I didn't want to know how my parents felt about me, either. As I'd matured into a young centaur filly, my father had been protective of me, though not restrictive – which I was grateful for. If a young male centaur showed the slightest flare of interest in me, Eolas would notice – then regard him carefully and study his every move. Then he'd take me aside and solemnly list out the negative traits he'd picked up on and didn't like.

At the time, I'd enjoyed those conversations, because I never found a young male centaur that I was completely enchanted with. Because of that, I never felt combative against my father's point of view. Sometimes it took awhile before I understood exactly what Eolas was talking about, as far as traits he didn't like. When one is young, one cannot understand the facets of souls very easily, no matter how well someone else explains those facets. Age and experience are harsh teachers. I was fortunate: I'd learned to rely on my father's wisdom, and it may have kept me from a few major pitfalls.

But St. John? How would they feel about my ultimate choice? Even if it weren't St. John – I mentally went backwards over the list of men who had been in my life. Angel. Bond James Bond. The knight Valentino.

I sniffled and burrowed into my pillow. All things considered, I couldn't imagine my father approving any of them as a suitable lifemate. And never mind the fact that each of those men lacked a centaur heritage.

It hurt the most to think that Eolas might not like Angel. But St. John… I'd _kissed_ him, I'd pledged my love to him, and I'd been willing to die for him. Even now, I wished I'd died with him. Had we walked together into Aslan's Country, hand in hand, what would my parents have said?

I didn't know. I didn't want to know. I just… hoped that maybe my parents could take care of St. John in my place. Maybe, in time, they would see in him a shadow of what I saw in him.

As for Aslan… I was too furious and heartbroken to think about Aslan. Much as I didn't want to see disapproval in Kurt's yellow eyes, Aslan's yellow eyes could pierce through me in a way no one else's could. I'd tried so hard to follow Aslan, to do the right thing… to what avail? I'd made a tremendous mistake. I didn't know how it happened, or how I could have avoided it – and I couldn't even comprehend the enormity of the mistake. It was just… there: A massive force that loomed in my path, inevitable and inescapable. I couldn't fight a thunderstorm.

I just… wanted to be left alone.

I either fell asleep or drifted into a dark void, because the next thing I knew, Alisha's gentle touch roused me into reality.

"The bubble bath's all ready, Vi. Can you smell it?"

I sighed, then sniffed the air. There was a faint minty scent that cut through the thick smoky air of death that clung to my hair, skin, and tattered clothes. "A little," I confessed.

Alisha smiled, then helped me out of bed and led me through one of the doors into a spacious bathroom. I hated feeling… worthless, like an invalid. But I didn't have the strength to argue. It was all I could do to keep up with her.

The bathroom tiles were the same golden earth tones as the bedroom walls, and a rather large white bathtub full of froth seemed to dominate the bathroom. More tiles, the same color and texture as those which covered the floor, were sculpted around the tub. A large shower with rippled glass doors took up the other wall, and I couldn't see inside of it. I frowned, taking in the gleaming white sink with its silver fixtures, the dark marble countertops, and the blond oak cabinetry.

I stopped in my tracks as a thought intruded on my sluggish mind.

"Um, Alisha," I faltered, looking around almost nervously. "Whose room is this?"

The dazzling smile that overtook Alisha's face wrenched my heart. "I was wondering when you'd ask. It's all yours, Vi."

I looked around again, stunned into helpless silence. The place was… It could have rivaled Cair Paravel.

Alisha clasped her hands and stood watching me, beaming. I finally looked up at her, uncertain and speechless. She seemed to be waiting for a response, but I didn't know what to say.

I bit my lip before I could burst into tears and averted my gaze.

Alisha hurried forward, suddenly anxious, and she caught me by the elbows. "If you don't like it, don't be shy to say so," she said hurriedly. "I know you like being alone sometimes, though you're still welcome to stay in my room, if you'd rather. Jean and I did our best with remodeling on the fly, but we kind of knew that you might not like it. I mean, who are we to say what kind of tastes a centaur has? I knew you liked blue because you said so before, and we tried to make the tub and the shower really big, even though we didn't have a whole lot of space, and I thought maybe earth tones might appeal to, you know, a centaur who lived in the woods. But if you want different colors or—"

I cut her off with a crushing hug, sobbing against her small shoulder. I couldn't bear to hear any more. It was too great a gift. My own room… at Xavier's… after everything I'd done.

"Violar?" whispered my friend, tentatively returning the embrace.

I sniffled and struggled to get my overwhelming, wayward emotions under control. "I don't… deserve this," I managed shakily.

Alisha started, as if my reply surprised her. Then she returned the hug full-force. "That's a lot of nonsense, Vi. Anyway, it's too late to argue. If you want redecorating or remodeling, that's something else, but this place is _yours_. Now come on, get those ratty clothes off and climb into the bath before it gets cold."

I didn't have much choice.

There were so many gaps in my memory. Everything was fuzzy and surreal, as if I weren't a part of my own surroundings. The next thing I remember, I was sinking into the sea of soft white bubbles, and the scents of mint and eucalyptus rushed over my overwrought senses.

It was meant to be calming. Instead it unleashed a flood of tears. I turned my head toward the tiled wall, shaken by violent sobs that left me weaker and weaker – inside and out.

"Now, Vi, take it easy or you'll drown," chided Alisha's gentle voice. I felt her fingers sorting through my smoky hair. After a moment, she encouraged, "Talk to me."

I sniffled harder and lurched away, almost pulling my hair from Alisha's hands. "St. John," was all I could get out, my voice an anguished cry. I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face in my forearms on the edge of the tub.

I cried and cried for a long time. There was so much to cry about that it seemed I would never be able to cry enough. I cried through the whole bath – though I don't remember much of it. Somehow Alisha persuaded me to roll onto my back again, and she washed my smoky hair with coconut-flavored shampoo.

The tub water had grown cold before I finally left it. Alisha wrapped me up in a towel and fixed another over my hair like a veil, and then she brought me another surprise: A fluffy white bathrobe.

I cried over that, too.

The next thing I knew, I was back in bed – clad in the bathrobe with the towel in my hair. Alisha had changed the sheets at some point between the time I'd left the bath and the moment I'd crawled back into bed, and the perpetual smell of smoke was gone. Instead, everything smelled like mint and eucalyptus with faint notes of coconut.

And a tray of pastries had been set on my lap. Alisha sat beside me, gazing at me intently. She was really worried about me.

"How long has it been since you ate last?"

I frowned wearily, then just closed my eyes. "Um… I don't remember," I mumbled.

"Yeah, I kinda thought so. That's so awful, and you need your strength. You're usually, well… I mean, so hungry. Like you want to eat everything in sight all the time. Don't you want to try an apple danish?"

I brought my dull stare back to the tray. The apple danish was one of several treats that ordinarily I wouldn't have been able to resist: A cinnamon roll with cream cheese frosting, a triangular something-or-other that oozed cherry filling from the corners, a favorite donut of mine called a maple bar, a small pile of donut middles that had been rolled in powdered sugar…

I sighed and looked away. No, I didn't want to try an apple danish – or anything else, for that matter.

"Now that's enough of that, Vi!" Alisha suddenly snapped.

Startled, I brought my gaze to Alisha's face and tried to focus. "What… what?"

"You're hungry, darn it. I _know_ you are. I heard your stomach growling the whole time you were taking a bath. Now pick up that apple danish and eat it!"

I groaned and rolled my head to the other side of my pillow. And then, to my complete shame, I burst into tears.

"Oh God," Alisha gasped, her horrified tone drenched in remorse. I felt the tray lift away from my lap. "I'm sorry, Vi – I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry… I was just trying to help…"

I choked and sniffled, wearily shaking my head. "Not… your fault…"

Gentle arms wrapped around me and pulled me into a tender embrace. Alisha was trying to keep herself quiet, I gradually realized, but she was crying almost as hard as I was. She rocked me back and forth, holding me until the tears subsided.

After awhile, Alisha cleared her throat and spoke, her voice choked and raspy.

"You've got to eat something, Vi. I'm really scared… the way you're acting right now… It's not like you. I almost lost you…" A wave of tears swept her under, and she pressed her face into the towel covering my hair. "I… I can't tell you how terrified I was. I was on the stairs, and St. John came out and… set everything on fire… and I couldn't get to you. I managed to get outside, and then the windows exploded, and I yelled at the neighbor to call 911… and I didn't want to leave you, but I, there was nothing else I could do… so I ran to my car and sped all the way here, and I went running out and the first person I saw in the yard was Angel. I don't even know what I told him – I screamed something hysterical at him, and he looked as scared as I felt when he flew off. And then he… and then I… I couldn't do anything but wait, wait, wait for an eternity… and then after the longest time, he came flying in, and you were just limp in his arms like… like a dead person and I… I thought I lost you…"

Alisha gripped me tighter and sobbed, and I too easily wept along with her. In addition to the broken, run-on story Alisha had told, I felt – in my Danger Sense – the absolute terror she'd been through, the frantic worry, the endless waiting. The not knowing. The cagy helplessness. It had been such a long day for her.

"Alisha," I presently managed to whisper, rubbing her back with hands that felt very slow and weak. "I'm sorry." I sniffled. "So sorry. I'll eat…"

She held me close for a few minutes longer. Then, ever so gently, she leaned me into the pillows at the head of the bed. _My_ bed. Guilt and shame further stung my wounded soul: I felt so awful with what I'd put her through, and then she'd gone and… collaborated with Jean to fix up a room for me. Because she knew how much I preferred to be alone.

I bit my lip, sniffing. "'Lisha," I whispered, reaching out to grip her hand. She squeezed it back, looking teary and sadder than I'd ever seen her. Her green eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, and her already white face was far too pale.

Alisha was trying to be brave for me, I slowly realized. All this energetic happiness – it was an act she'd been performing for my sake. I bit my lip and gulped, then looked down at her slender white fingers.

All my thoughts faded into a cloudy mist then. It hurt too much…

_Apple danish._

"I'll eat now," I whispered.

Alisha sniffled and wiped her sleeve over her shiny alabaster cheeks. Then she offered me a shy smile, and in a moment she placed the tray on my lap. I wearily struggled to sit up straighter.

One more time, I looked at my friend. I wasn't imagining things: Alisha _was_ thinner than I remembered her. For the first time, I tried to envision what kind of week she'd lived through while I was going through hell with St. John. Maybe it had been killing her to know that I was on deathwatch with St. John, all alone. Maybe that's what had driven her to finally enter that mutant-quarantined house, despite the risks to her own health and a possible banishment from Xavier's. Maybe we had more in common than I'd first thought. Worst of all, maybe I had sorely underestimated her as a person – and as a friend.

"Would you… care to join me?" I wondered with a slight nod at the tray of pastries.

A choked little laugh escaped her, but it was good to hear. "Yeah, I think I will. Thanks, Vi."

Alisha produced a pair of silver forks, and together we sampled the collection of treats. The food didn't have much taste to me, but I ate for the sake of Alisha and to appease my very angry stomach. And I kept a closer eye on my friend, watching her smile, and sniff, and occasionally wipe away a tear. Then she would try to make a funny comment or say something hopeful. I wondered if she actually felt hopeful, or if she were only saying those things on my account.

Based on what I interpreted through my Danger Sense, I guessed the latter to be true. And it hurt. But there was nothing I could do about it.

We reduced the tray to crumbs. I leaned back with a little moan, and I felt Alisha adjusting the pillows and blankets around me as I drifted into a heavy sleep.


	25. Memoirs of a Ghost

_I love you, Violar._

"St. John, wait!"

With a gasp, I sat bolt-upright in bed, reaching for a man who wasn't there. Alone in the darkness, panting heavily, reality slammed into me.

_He's gone. He's dead._

My heart collapsed. I sank into the pillow as tears overwhelmed me… again.

His voice haunted me night and day. I wasn't sure if the memories were a comfort or salt in open wounds - and there were so many open wounds. My heart had been ripped wide open, and there was no way to stop the internal bleeding. I felt so lost, so completely alone...

Even though Alisha tried, bless her heart, there was nothing anyone could do. Alisha brought food, made sure I choked some of it down, and stayed with me for hours. Sometimes she tried to get me to talk. Other times she sat with me in silence. For her sake, I tried – I really tried. But there was no help for me. I burst into tears without warning so much that I quit trying to fight it. There was no use. Occasionally, right in the middle of a conversation, I would blank out, and I would miss whole discourses from Alisha. My usual dagger-sharp memory was slipperier than the mansion's courtyard fountain in winter, and even patient Alisha had been exasperated with me numerous times for my lapses during our interactions.

Worst of all, I was helpless to change any of it. My heart felt so hollow. I had no strength of body or spirit. Had it not been for Alisha, I'd have quit fighting altogether and let the process of grief run its course, no matter where I ended up by the time it was over.

Still, fighting changed nothing. I cried, I forgot, and I had dreams – vivid nightmares of St. John trying to find me while I stood beside him, invisible and screaming his name; of St. John reaching for me to save him from falling into a fiery abyss; of St. John proclaiming his love for me with his dying breath.

I was losing it. Or maybe I'd already lost it.

A few of the mutants sent up bouquets of flowers, which brightened and perfumed my new room. Jean Grey added a very touching card to a vase of red roses which, predictably, reduced me to tears. Ororo sent a potted plant with a purple flower called an African daisy and a brief letter, which I treasured and kept under my pillow – though a few of the words had blurred from my tears. Logan's gift was an improvised six-pack of SOBEs and a short note scribbled in a rough hand:

_If you need something stronger, let me know. I'm never far away._

Remembering my conversation with Logan about lost loves and never settling for less than the sun, and how SOBE wasn't strong enough to kill pain, I sobbed. But no beer could bring back St. John, so I didn't ask for any.

A knock at the door one afternoon brought not Alisha, but another familiar face into my room. With my sluggish memory the way it was, it took me a moment to place the slim, tentative blonde woman with the shy smile.

"Bethany," I whispered, finally recognizing my coworker from Bloomingdale's.

"Hey there, Violar." She came in and brought with her a plate of cookies, a blue helium balloon, and a humble bouquet of multicolored carnations. "Your sweet tooth remains legendary at Bloomingdale's, so I thought you might like some sugar cookies. And I, I hope you like carnations. They're such pretty flowers, and they smell so nice."

I couldn't answer. I stared at the cookies, then the flowers, then the balloon, and then Bethany herself. And I burst into tears.

Bethany sat with me for awhile and held my hand, and I struggled to assure her – in between sobs and violent sniffles – that I would be fine, eventually. I just had a little broken heart, that's all. I tried to smile. I asked her how the baby was. And I don't remember her response. Her pregnancy was not far along, still, and her stomach hadn't bulged yet.

I was relieved when she tied the balloon to my headboard and left after a short time. Bethany was in a fragile emotional state herself after recently breaking off a long-term relationship with a boyfriend who'd been cheating on her. I didn't want to stress her out, because babies can be particularly sensitive to a mother's emotional state while helpless in the womb. I didn't want to hurt an innocent child over things that couldn't be helped.

Nothing came from Angel.

I tried not to care – I really did. The gifts from everyone else had been a surprise. Why should it have bothered me if Angel chose not to send a token?

I bit my lip. How could I expect him to visit, or to have anything to do with me at all, after the insults and accusations I'd hurled at him when he'd saved my life?

I would have given a lot for the opportunity to apologize to him. But even if I could have mustered the courage to face him, he was nowhere to be found. I learned from Alisha that no one had seen him in awhile. Apparently he'd left the mansion. I guessed that he was probably staying with his girlfriend, Thea. I couldn't blame him. Despite all the awful things Thea had done to him, maybe she at least wouldn't yell at Angel and accuse him of playing God if he saved her life.

I was devastated.

Alisha cut my hair. The left side was shorter and jagged from catching fire. I'd been fortunate that I hadn't lost all of it. Still, when Alisha gave one last clip of the scissors and let me study my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I looked even more like a stranger to myself. I'd never had shoulder-length cropped hair before.

"It'll grow out before you know it," Alisha reassured me, placing a hand on my shoulder when I said nothing for several minutes. "In the meantime – not a bad piece of barber work, if I may say so myself. You look a picture. In fact, it gives me an idea for a Halloween costume…"

I shuffled out of the bathroom without a word, my mind on the phantom I'd seen in the mirror. My staring eyes had looked so blank and hopeless, sunken into a pale face and ringed by dark purple circles of exhaustion. What had happened to me? What was happening to me still?

It was worse when I was alone. I curled up and wept disconsolately, and thought about what had been and what I'd lost – and then I didn't think. There was nothing more to think about. The hours dragged by. I watched the numbers on my clock change, one at a time. I watched the colors of daylight and midnight shadows move across my bedroom walls. When I looked down from my window to watch the mutant children in the courtyard laugh and play during recess or after classes, I felt even farther removed from life.

I'd lost something. I'd lost… everything. I was empty. I didn't know who I was anymore, or how to find myself again.

I knew Alisha wouldn't approve if I left my room, but it didn't matter. So I passed beyond my bedroom door and discovered that I was actually living in a small apartment. There was a tiny kitchen and a living area, set up with a blue couch and a little window alcove framed by blue curtains. The sight of a television set and a piece of equipment for playing CD music brought tears to my eyes.

Everyone… they'd all been so good to me. I didn't know how to deal with it.

I dressed in black, put on a brown trench coat (my previous one had perished in the fire, and Alisha thoughtfully lent me one of hers), wrapped a red scarf around my neck, and left my apartment. The taste of fresh air alleviated my restlessness and caused my tense muscles to soften, but it did nothing to clear my head. The shadows and the confusion remained.

From that day on, I drifted in and out of the mansion like a ghost, not knowing where I went or what I did. I found myself in the forest or walking along the lonely backroads leading to and from the mansion.

I ended up at strange destinations, having no clue how I'd gotten there or why: Standing beside the river near the Brooklyn bridge, or lost in thought in the middle of a park, or huddled beside the courtyard fountain, watching the droplets splash and fall. It hurt to feel, it hurt to think, it hurt to _breathe_... and sometimes I was again irrationally angry with Angel for saving my life, but it was a dull anger: I couldn't even muster the strength for anger. This wasn't supposed to happen. If only he'd left me to die, I wouldn't be suffering now. I might even be with St. John.

_I love you, Violar._

Nights and days blurred together. I couldn't stop crying. I missed St. John so much. I could still see him, trying to look bored while his blue eyes betrayed his amusement as we verbally jousted, each trying to best the other. Making cynical remarks about everything from television reruns to the ways of mankind. Creating a winged, fiery centaur on a sidewalk, looking like some sort of almighty fire god – his hands outstretched and his eyes blazing as he reveled in his powers. Staring at me in awe the night he realized that I really was a centaur. Laughing because he couldn't help it while we sparred with a broom and a mop... calling himself a helpless puppy and cowering before me and my pillow of doom... deriving a tremendous amount of enjoyment from threatening me with the dire outcome of our pillowfight while barely hitting me with his own pillow... catching me in his arms and gazing down at me with an expression somewhere between fearful and tender when I pretended to be overcome by the smell of his boots... the way he held me close, so very gently, as if he expected me to leave him at any moment and yet taking that risk for the chance to be closer to me... how he looked at me when I spoke, clinging to my every word, until I couldn't stand it anymore... his eyes, when they fluttered open and caught my gaze in the midst of a kiss so intense that I thought it'd never end...

_Or more_, he'd said, when I'd impulsively voiced my fervent hope that it would go on for days... weeks... months...

Why had it ended? Why had I ever let him go? If I could go back in time, I'd have kissed him that whole magical night and never let him fall asleep. Maybe morning would have been permanently postponed that way. But back then, I hadn't known how short our time would be, or how fragile our lives were, or how cruel fate was...

Maybe it had all been a dream - a dream so real and so beautiful that I didn't want to leave it. It had come to such a swift and abrupt end that the memory seemed like more dream than reality, only it was a dream more real than life itself. St. John had made me feel alive.

In the mornings, I never wanted to wake up anymore. When my eyes opened to find dreary reality waiting for me, the piercing agony in my heart made me wonder why it didn't kill me. It was worse than any wound I'd sustained in battle - and I'd had my share of excruciating injuries. Perhaps it was some recurring virtue in Angel's rejuvenating blood that still worked through my body, keeping me from the eternal sleep I wished for so badly.

I wandered as a human, I wandered as a centaur; there was no rhyme or reason to it. At least I'd seemed to retain enough sense – or perhaps instinct – to avoid sleepwalking in populated areas while in my centaur form. It was a miracle that somehow, I always found my way back to Xavier's. The mansion was beautiful at night, with golden-yellow lights blazing from its many windows.

I was walking on a crowded city sidewalk, brooding and alone in my coat amid a lot of people, when I glanced up. At once I gasped; my heart stopped. There was a familiar head of ash blond hair just ahead of me. He was wearing a nice black jacket, of all things, and a checkered gray scarf wrapped around his neck.

I blinked again and again, my heart rising in my chest with wild hope.

"St. John! St. John!"

I dashed forward, pushing desperately through the crowds, struggling to reach him. He didn't seem to hear my cries. Finally I got close enough and gripped his arm, giving it a strong tug.

"St. John!"

The man spun around, and everything inside of me collapsed. It wasn't St. John. Scowling at me in bewildered irritation, the stranger shook his arm free of my limp hand and strode away, shaking his head.

I'd embarrassed myself that way several times. I'd gotten a lot of odd looks from those who remotely resembled the fire mutant, and they'd left me standing there, even more devastated than before - over and over and over again.

How many times could a heart break? I didn't know, but I would've made an excellent case study.

Despite Alisha's efforts, I ate very little. Thanks to my blazing centaurian metabolism, I lost a tremendous amount of weight in one week and melted away with frightening swiftness. The only time I slept was when I collapsed from exhausted grief - wherever I happened to be: On a library couch, in the courtyard, on a park bench, and even once on the window seat in my new apartment, where I'd curled up like a homesick little girl to watch the rain fall outside. Was it really raining, or was it only tears?

They said time was supposed to heal wounds. But that statement wasn't meant for me. This separation from St. John, whom I'd emotionally bound myself to very strongly in a very short amount of time, was unbearable to endure.

Suddenly, one day, I found myself standing outside St. John's house.

It was nothing but a blackened shell now. It stood like an ominous, disfigured shipwreck against a dark gray sky. Two walls were still standing; the rest was collapsed timber. The roof had caved in, and the porch was crushed in a mutilated V-shape over the charred steps. Broken glass scattered around the disaster like diamonds sparkling among jet-black coal. Yellow tape with the words _Police Line: Do Not Cross_ printed all over it surrounded the area.

I stood there on the sidewalk with my hands in my coat pockets, feeling completely miserable. A cold February wind blew through my cropped hair. I was tempted to cross that yellow line and walk among the rubble, despite the warning. But – by nature – I wasn't a centaur who broke the rules.

Or… maybe I was. After the night I'd become an accomplice to a restaurant robbery, I wasn't sure that was true.

All along the street, the neighborhood went on as before. Unless I was imagining it, there seemed to be a greater peace and an air of relief in the atmosphere, now that St. John was gone. Three children played with a jump rope across the street. An old man next door to St. John's ruined house mowed his lawn. He was the fellow, I slowly realized, who had the old car on the cinder blocks in the backyard – the one the family of stray cats had taken over. I walked a little further along the sidewalk and craned to get a look at the backyard, and I was oddly grateful to find the car still intact. Even the chain-link fence containing the nasty dog hadn't been touched by the flames.

The obnoxious roar of the lawnmower engine grew louder, then abruptly dropped to a low hum. I looked over as the old man yelled over the noise. "Can I help ya, miss?"

I lowered my eyes and shook my head, swallowing the knot in my throat. No one could help me, now.

As I turned to walk away, I suddenly wondered if St. John's body had been found among the wreckage. Had they given him a proper burial? They wouldn't have just left him there, would they?

That worry stopped me in my tracks, and I stared at the house, considering. With a structure that unstable, it was likely to collapse on anyone who dug through the rubble. Even if I'd had my usual strength and energy, it would have been impossible for me to sort through the heavy timbers and charred walls by myself. I would have to ask Storm… or maybe Alisha… about what had happened to St. John's body. They would know, most likely.

"You're that girl, aren't you. The one who was staying with that mutant."

I looked over to find the old man still watching me, his eyes narrowed with suspicion and his arms folded across his chest. He didn't like me, I slowly realized as the colors in my Danger Sense became clearer. And he was implying something… particularly nasty. I felt a dark disgust radiating from him, along with a sinister intrigue. I shuddered and pulled my coat closer.

"I… I'm no one," I mumbled quietly as I turned around and walked away.

I woke up in Starbucks.

I raised my head from the table, feeling lines from my trench coat sleeves etched into my cheek. I looked around, somewhat disoriented.

_Was that all… a dream?_

My bookbag was beside me: According to Alisha, some kind person had turned it in at the mansion because of the addresses on the work applications I still carried, even though I'd gotten the job at Bloomingdale's - which I was now on emergency leave from. Even if I could have found the emotional energy to go to work, my contributions to the company wouldn't have been worth a dime of my salary.

_The Once and Future King_ remained unread. An untouched French vanilla latte sat near my elbow in a thick paper cup, growing lukewarm. I supposed I'd ordered it out of habit... and why not? Everything I did was out of habit, now. There was no other reason to do anything anymore. I drifted through my life, going through the motions... but inside, I felt dead.

All of a sudden, a memory broke the surface of my dull thoughts. The quiet coffee shop faded away, replaced by soft shadows and piercing ice blue eyes.

"_Zephina… I told you that death won't keep me away from you. And it won't."_

My heart caved in on itself, and I burst into tears, turning a watery stare out the window. Where was he? He'd promised to come back for me... and I was still alone.

Then the music playing through Starbucks changed to a piano-dominated piece that tugged my emotions. After a couple of instrumental measures, a male vocalist began to sing, and the words seized my attention.

_Where has that old friend gone,_

_Lost in a February song?_

_Tell him it won't be long_

_Til he opens his eyes,_

_Opens his eyes…_

I caught my breath and held it, gripped by the emotional melody and a message that hit too close to home. Dimly I recognized the voice of a classical musician Alisha had shared with me before. His name was Josh Groban – a particularly odd name, which is why it had stuck in my memory.

I gulped as he continued.

_Where is that simple day,_

_Before colors broke into shades?_

_And how did I ever fade_

_Into this life, into this life?_

_And I never want to let you down,_

_Forgive me if I slip away;_

_When all that I've known is lost and found,_

_I promise you I, I'll come back to you one day..._

_Morning is waking up,_

_And sometimes it's more than just enough,_

_When all that you need to love_

_Is in front of your eyes,_

_It's in front of your eyes..._

_And I never want to let you down,_

_Forgive me if I slip away;_

_Sometimes it's hard to find the ground,_

_Cause I keep on falling as I try to get away_

_From this crazy world..._

I buried my head in my arms and sobbed as the music soared into a turbulent, powerful instrumental bridge. Did the words echo something of what St. John felt? Anything? I was desperate to believe that – desperate. Why couldn't he reach me? He said he'd come back… He said he loved me… He promised never to leave me alone.

Or maybe… maybe the words belonged to me. Maybe this is how I felt towards St. John.

That was the last thought I had before Josh Groban gave voice to the emotions swirling inside my soul.

_And I never want to let you down,_

_Forgive me if I slip away;_

_When all that I've known is lost and found,_

_I promise you I, I'll come back to you one day..._

_Where has that old friend gone,_

_Lost in a February song?_

_Tell him it won't be long_

_Til he opens his eyes;_

_Opens his eyes..._

Wiping a fresh fall of tears on my sleeve, I stood up, shouldered my bookbag, and exited the shop with my hands in my pockets and my eyes on the sidewalk. It was sunset; dimly I remembered spending the entire day wandering the streets of New York, lost in the crowds... until I'd somehow arrived in front of St. John's house. But I didn't recall how I'd come from those charred ruins to the coffee shop, or why I was there.

Earlier it had been gray and overcast, but now sporadic rays of pale sunlight penetrated the clouds, glancing brilliant orange-gold streaks - like fire, I thought - off the mirrored sides of high-rise buildings. And the next thing I knew, I was standing on a street corner - a familiar street corner where my life had been irrevocably changed.

Biting my lip, I glanced over my shoulder at the clock tower rising into the sunset sky before tears invaded my vision completely. I dropped my head. Pedestrians beside me crossed the street when the blue sign flashed on, but I remained there, left alone in my misery. Taking one end of my red woolen scarf between my fingers, I pressed it against my cheeks to absorb the tears.

_By the mane... I miss you, St. John._

By the time I let the end of the scarf fall free of my fingers, the orange hand was warning me not to cross the street. A fresh knot of people gathered to await the next signal. Sniffing softly, I turned my head aside and gazed across the road to the opposite sidewalk, remembering another night where curious humans had gathered to watch the latest mutant freak show - and had paid a hefty price for it.

I swept a hand through my dark hair, now almost a foot shorter than it had been before the fire. In a way, I couldn't blame St. John for his reaction. It _was_ annoying to be treated so differently – as an oddity worth gawking at. Still, it was the wrong reaction to give into, and I would've had a talk with him at the earliest possible opportunity... and I knew he would've listened to me, eventually, and not just because I could be very persuasive. Inside of him, he had a good heart. I knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt...

And now that it was all over – _especially_ now that it was all over - I absolutely refused to believe otherwise.

Tears were beginning to form in my eyes again, and I brushed them away out of habit. I no longer cared about crying in public. It had been all too common of late. Even if it weren't, I had no energy to put into despising anything.

Turning back to the group of strangers congregating on the sidewalk, I immediately noticed one of them who reminded me so painfully of St. John that my heart ripped, and I winced and looked away. And then – because I couldn't help myself – I dragged my eyes back to this man and studied him. His bored, cocky stance was identical. He was of equal height and build. Even his dirty blond hair was the same color, though it was slicked back instead of loose and free-flowing and soft. My fingers twitched convulsively and curled into fists as I remembered the glorious feel of it in my hands.

_St. John had really nice hair..._

I sighed. _I _am_ going crazy._

It wasn't the first time I'd seen someone who looked like St. John, either. After a few days of seeing shadows of him everywhere, I'd resolved not to make a fool of myself anymore by calling his name and running after ghosts.

Despite all my inner promises, I sidled a little closer to the man, letting his shadow fall over me. At once I gave a soft sigh and felt somewhat comforted by the presence of this stranger who, for just a moment, radiated enough of St. John to soothe my aching heart and my grieving Danger Sense. I kept my head low to avoid making accidental eye contact, and then I found myself wondering what kind of shoes he wore.

Boots. He was wearing boots. And they looked just like St. John's.

_"Jeez, look at those things! Are they like, armor for your feet? So you can protect your toes from stray rocks on the sidewalk?"_

_"Yep. Those pebbles hurt."_ And he'd grinned at me.

That beautiful smile still wrenched my soul. I dabbed at my eyes with the corner of my scarf.

The man was getting impatient and annoyed with the crosswalk signal for taking so long to change. That particular combination of shifting emotions felt... normal to me, and I associated those feelings with the not-so-distant past – a past I vastly preferred to this present. They were negative and volatile emotions, but oddly enough, they calmed me down. For just one moment, I stopped crying.

Keeping my head lowered, I opened my eyes, gazing at those boots. This was the first real comfort I'd felt since the tragedy. It would only last a moment, and when it departed, I'd be desolate... but that one small respite was a drop of water in my desert. I welcomed it, and I would savor it while it lasted.

For the first time, I felt a twinge of hope. Maybe, maybe there was light at the end of this dark forest path. Maybe I would one day laugh again. Maybe I would somehow move on.

I didn't dare think past that. I clung to that slim hope with all my being, inwardly pleading for it to be true.

_I do want to live. I do…_

The man turned around. I could feel him staring at me.

I didn't move under his scrutiny, but I didn't raise my eyes either. I simply endured his stare. I didn't want to look into a stranger's eyes right then and find any expression there - pity, once he saw that I'd been crying; or curiosity, as to _why_ I'd been crying; or disdain, because I was fragile enough to cry in public. I didn't want to be pitied or questioned or comforted. I wanted to be left alone.

Someone jostled the man, muttered a halfhearted apology, and kept walking. But the distraction was enough to drag the fellow's attention away from me, and I was glad of it. I remained where I was, my eyes half-closed as I let the moment soak deep into my soul.

My Danger Sense tingled, like Bethany's helium balloon moving too close to my forearm and causing my skin to prickle, but I didn't pay any attention. What did it matter? Danger, safety, life, death… they were all out there, waiting to capture unwary victims. I'd sought danger on purpose once, and I'd found it the night I met St. John. I'd gotten far more than I'd bargained for. Now I wanted nothing to do with danger, except—

Suddenly there was a small explosion.

I jumped and give a muffled cry of shock, my eyes wide as I stared at a teenager a short distance away whose stiffly-gelled black and red mohawk was in flames. He was clad all in black and chains with hideous tattoos coiled down his white arms, and now he was screaming like a madman and dancing about as he waved frantically at his fiery hairdo. Pieces of a cigarette floated around him like white paper confetti.

Shock and my own lack of strength paralyzed me.

_A cigarette? Caused that fire?_

My comprehension was a little slow.

_His hair's on fire. I have to… to put out the flames._

I looked around wildly, wondering what I could use. Someone else beat me to it, throwing a coat over the unfortunate teenager's head and patting out the flames.

The fellow in front of me was _laughing_.

Everything inside of me twisted up, and I suddenly looked at him.

I knew that laugh. It was an awful laugh, not a happy laugh like the ones I treasured in my memory; but it was the same laugh. Then he turned around, and my wide eyes jolted up to his - and time stopped.

"Aslan..."

It was him.


	26. Promise Me

It was St. John.

My jaw went slack, and I stared at him in utter disbelief. I couldn't breathe. I didn't dare take my eyes off him, in case he'd vanish like smoke in the wind.

_This isn't real. He isn't real._

_He's dead._

I'd finally reached the brink of my sanity, and my mind was playing tricks on me for the sake of survival. My life without him was precarious at best, so my mind had resorted to creating illusions to prevent my premature death.

That was the only explanation. The _only_ one. Unless... unless...

_He'd promised me. He said nothing would keep me from him._

"You came back," I said in a stricken whisper.

He looked at me as if I were crazy, then slowly backed away. I matched him step for step, my eyes locked with his. By the mane, his blue eyes were so beautiful. The sounds of the world around me faded away. Only St. John remained.

He cocked an eyebrow at me, but finally he stopped. I stood across from him, wondering at his puzzled expression, trying desperately to understand what was going on... and hardly caring.

_He's here. By the mane, he's really here._

Tears of joy gathered in my eyes. In so many ways, that was all that mattered.

"What?" he snapped, glancing over his shoulder as if he expected my stare to be directed at someone else.

I knew I was staring, but I couldn't help it. Oh Aslan, he was a sight for sore eyes! He was whole and healthy again, and as fair and handsome as he'd been before the Legacy Virus had twisted and destroyed him. Not so much as one red sore marred his clear skin.

Explosions were going off in my mind, breaking it out of the dull fog it had been stuck in for a week. My thoughts sped out of control: _Is he alive or is he dead?_

He'd just used his powers – in the real world. In my world. How could he use his powers if he were dead? Unless maybe he was even more powerful now that he wasn't... alive anymore?

"What are you talking about?" he demanded in the same deep, cold tone.

For the first time in a week, I actually smiled. It felt so good to hear him snap at me.

Almost shyly, I dropped my head and swept a hand through my shorter hair. One thing I knew for certain was that he didn't recognize me. Maybe it was because of my shorter hair. But surely he would know the sound of my voice…

"Um... I must sound quite daft," I admitted with a soft chuckle. "I just..." Abruptly I fixed my eyes on him again, brimming with desperate questions that I couldn't hold back anymore. "Where have you been? You promised death wouldn't keep us apart... I've been... I've missed you, so very much, St. John," I told him tenderly. "I didn't know what had happened to you, and I..." Abruptly I broke off and gave a teary smile. It didn't matter. I could forgive him the absence, now that he was standing here in front of me. I blinked back the urge to cry. "You don't know_ how much_ I've missed you. Why did you take so long to come back?"

He narrowed his blue eyes at me. "Come back from where?"

Everything inside of me trembled as my mind raced ahead. He was confused. I could _sense_ his confusion – as tangibly in my Danger Sense as if he were alive. If he were dead, how could I sense the emotions radiating from him?

From the swirling collage in my Danger Sense, one major emotion was missing: Love. At the moment, it wasn't that important...

"St. John," I breathed, too overwhelmed to answer.

His frown deepened, and he stared blankly at me. A flare of anger ignited in his eyes.

"I don't know who you are, or how you know my name, or what you're talking about," he growled. "But maybe you should get some help."

I stood there in stunned shock. My mind wasn't making this up, that was for certain; I'd never dreamed he would act like _this_ towards me. Not after the tender confession etched permanently into my memory at the moment of his death...

_I love you, Violar._

He stepped toward me, his blue eyes burning with glacial coldness. I stood frozen, watching in paralyzed shock as he brushed past me and walked away.

_He doesn't… remember me._

It took a full minute for me to register that, in that brief instant when he'd passed me, his shoulder - mostly his jacket - made light contact with mine. When he'd touched me, I'd _felt_ it. Physically. An electric shock raced through my body.

Suddenly my senses reeled and I gave a wild cry.

_He's alive._

Then I spun and ran after him. "No, wait!"

St. John came to a reluctant halt. He didn't turn around.

I stopped suddenly, clenching and unclenching my hands out of pure nervousness, trembling all over with barely controlled panic and excitement and too many other emotions to properly sort through. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to simply stand there. How I longed to just... seize him and hug him and kiss him and...

St. John slowly turned and regarded me with longsuffering annoyance.

"You're alive!" I breathed, staring at him as if he were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Abruptly I covered my mouth and started laughing hysterically, crying tears of joy through my fingers.

A sharp stab in my Danger Sense pierced my euphoria. _He thinks I'm losing it._

At once I inhaled sharply and made myself stop it. I wasn't about to fall apart in front of St. John. With an effort I pulled myself together. The fact that his memory had somehow suffered eclipsed everything and sobered me just enough – which was fortunate. I didn't want come off like a complete lunatic, even though I felt like one: I was grappling with so much; it was overloading my senses.

_Click. Click._ The lighter – which St. John had attached to his wrist once more, I saw now – clicked impatiently. My time was running out. I had to explain myself, and fast.

"St. John," I declared, my voice stronger now and full of determination as I leveled a warm gaze on him, "you don't remember me, do you."

He actually stomped his boot, just like a frustrated horse. "What do you mean, I don't remember you?" He looked straight into my eyes. "I never knew you."

My heart clenched. And then I stamped my foot, equally frustrated with him.

"I'm _not_ crazy, St. John," I snapped, a sudden surge of anger rising in my chest and momentarily eclipsing my smile. I felt my eyes blaze. "Stop looking at me like that!"

He narrowed his eyes at me, as if puzzled by my outburst.

Joy exploded inside of me. Anger! I could feel anger again. It felt... wonderful to be angry again, to be _alive_ enough to be angry again; except that I was angry with _St. John_. But I was furious with him. How could he be like this? After everything I'd gone through – and was still going through – on his behalf, he had to forget I'd ever existed?

No wonder I was angry. It wasn't fair.

St. John stood there, just watching me.

Suddenly my emotions smoothed over, and I smiled - a very calm, gentle smile; one more suited to me. I felt rather bipolar. What a collision of emotion had whisked me from one end of the spectrum to the other! All in too short a space of time. I was still recovering from the whiplash of it all.

_I can't believe he's alive._

"Listen," I insisted. "I know you, and I can prove it. Just give me half a chance." Moving slowly as if approaching a wild non-talking animal, I closed the gap between us on the sidewalk until we were only a few feet apart. How I wished I'd kept his lighter! He would have known me then. He wouldn't have had a choice.

I had no chance to consider what I should and should not say before I started babbling. I had to give voice to my disbelief and complete joy upon seeing him again. "I can't believe you're here. I just... I could never have forgotten you, St. John. At this point, I think if I had amnesia, I could forget my own name, and who I was, and my whole life... but not you. Not you, St. John. My very _soul_ would remember you."

The final line jolted some sense into me, at last, and I stopped. St. John glared at me – probably for implying that he had amnesia. But he wasn't leaving, and I desperately took that as a good sign.

"Alright," I affirmed shakily, taking a bold step closer to him despite his glare. "We need to get you a new house, since the last one burned down. You can't stay there tonight." I smiled slightly, thrilled to be moving forward – and taking care of him again. "I could probably get you into an apartment not too far from your old place, if you like. I think the easiest thing to do would be to check you into an inn until we get you settled somewhere."

My gaze darted to one side and I momentarily chewed my lip, considering another option – the most obvious one: Xavier's Institute. But I decided against a suggestion that he accompany me to the mansion. Aside from the fact that St. John was definitely not in a good mood, there was no telling how he'd be received. Seeing the X-Men might set him off, but who knew what the X-Men would do to him at first sight.

Not that I would blame them. St. John was dangerous. Had I been one of the X-Men, I'd have protected the mansion and its inhabitants at all costs.

A lump rose in my throat. _Oh Aslan… here we go again._ Every step that brought me closer to St. John alienated me from my… my family.

St. John scowled at me and looked away, his eyes darting over his surroundings. I had no idea what was going through his mind, but the week before had taught me to respect his short attention span. I gulped and hastily spoke.

"Shall we discuss this over lunch? I'm buying," I added quickly, remembering too well what happened the _last_ time we'd visited a restaurant. "And... and I don't know about you, but I'm famished."

_Because I haven't eaten much in the last week._

St. John's cold stare came back to me, and I thought he might balk. I couldn't give him that option. Abruptly I smiled. "I'm Violar, by the way. And I'm a... a mutant, just like you. Shall we go?"

My heart was pounding. _Please say yes. Please say yes._ I didn't know what I'd do if he refused my offer and walked away.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and frowned at me. "Thanks for the introduction. Apparently I have nothing to say to you because you already know everything about me, right?"

What little remained of my courage evaporated under his sarcasm. I swallowed hard, fighting tears that brimmed in my eyes. This was worse than anything I could have imagined.

St. John stepped toward me, and for one moment I dared think that he was approaching me on purpose – until he moved past me again. I shut my eyes and clenched my jaw as my stomach fell with disappointment. It was as if he were deliberately torturing me.

His voice drifted back to me. "Sure. Where are we going?"

That surprised me. I turned slightly, regarding him warily – and sadly. _Why are you doing this to me? Why can't you just be—_

I slammed the door on my thoughts, startled at what had just gone through my mind. There was no way I could be wishing that none of this was real.

Without waiting for me, St. John started walking.

I lowered my head and followed in his wake with my hands in my pockets. I stared at his boots as he strode ahead of me, and a daze of unreality clouded my mind. I was so... confused. I couldn't tell how I felt. The world was so very bizarre. One moment I was grieving St. John's death; the next I was celebrating that he was alive – and that was before I'd found out that he had no memory of me.

Was my life destined to be such a carnival of insanity? I felt like I'd been caught in some cosmic playground where Fate and Destiny and Eternity were running around like wild children, changing their minds about which direction to take every... well, week.

No wonder I was rapidly developing a dreadful headache.

"You don't have a preference?" St. John snapped over his shoulder.

"Whatever you're in the mood for," I answered without much spirit. "If you said you were hungry for rubber, I'd join you at Bridgestone's for a couple of monster tires and a glass of that motor oil stuff. I'm that hungry." I looked up once at the various restaurants that lined both sides of the street, then glanced at St. John, then back at the sidewalk. "Just... pick anywhere. I seriously don't care."

The words fell flat. My emotions were, once again, dredged in mud.

St. John didn't even look at me. He scanned the buildings, and I wondered fleetingly whether he was looking for the best place to eat or the best place to burn down.

_Now, Violar, that's not fair,_ I chided myself. Frowning, I scuffed my black boot toe on the gray cement. _By the mane, he's alive. This is what you've been praying for. What more could you want?_

I bit my lip. _How about perfect memory?_ I snapped back. _How about… eternal love?_

There was no answer to that. My thoughts fell silent.

"Alright." St. John had evidently come to a decision.

Another surge of hope swelled inside of me when St. John walked towards me, and again that wild hope was dashed from a greater height when he passed me by for the third time. Wincing, I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my head aside. My heart ached. He was killing me and he didn't even know it.

I followed at a safe distance with my hands in my pockets and my head lowered, keeping only peripheral vision on him. It was so wrong that he didn't remember me... so, so wrong. At least he was alive, and that in itself was more than I could have hoped for. I had to remember that – and I didn't know why it was so hard to remember. I should have been happy. I should have been overjoyed.

I wasn't.

Maybe, in time, St. John would recall my face... and if he didn't, I was going to have to help him rebuild our friendship from Ground Zero.

Once I'd decided that, a measure of hope returned to me, and that's when I lifted my eyes to his back – to his brown leather jacket - and really took note of how he was walking. At once I had to bite my lower lip to keep from bursting into laughter.

His arrogant walk was so funny. It reminded me of a cocky centaur colt who'd just shot his first kill, then gone swaggering around the Council Ring with the buck slung proudly over his back as if to gather all the spits and seasonings to cook up that evening's meal. Everyone knew he was just showing off, with his wide exaggerated gait and sudden memory loss – which caused him to forget important ingredients and necessitated _more_ trips around the Ring. It was so utterly ridiculous.

_But cute..._

I bit my lip harder, but a snort of amusement escaped me anyway. Grinning madly, I stared hard at the sidewalk and tried to pretend that I was ignoring him in case he'd heard that.

He didn't turn around.

As before, St. John went into the restaurant without me. I caught the door just before it closed in my face and swept the darkened interior with an interested glance. I liked this restaurant, a somewhat tavern-styled establishment called The Outback Steakhouse. It reminded me of a few Narnian inns. That small sense of familiarity in the atmosphere was delightfully soothing to my overwrought nerves. The music was upbeat, and people were sitting at tables and laughing. And the smells! Oh. Aromas that powerful were enough to have melted me into a puddle of centaur fur in the entryway.

My mouth watered, and I swallowed as I moved through the restaurant's interior. It was only faintly smoky - not enough to bother my sensitive lungs too much. I found Pyro in a corner booth, where I'd pretty much expected him to be, and slid into the padded seat across from him.

My smile, by then, had regained its brilliance. St. John looked up at me without interest – until I shrugged out of my trench coat. Then I felt his heated gaze on me and an electric tingle in my Danger Sense, and I caught my breath as a shiver rippled along my spine. My eyes darted up to his. Immediately he looked away.

_He's… attracted to me._

The realization was both heartening and deeply unsettling. It made me feel strangely vulnerable.

Piling my coat next to me, I clasped my hands over the table and smiled eagerly at him. "Excellent choice, St. John. Thank you."

Without looking at me, St. John nodded – just once – and stared out into the restaurant. His impatience would have been obvious to me, even if I hadn't possessed a sensitive Danger Sense.

My head swam.

The delicious aromas - mostly of marinated steak - were making me dizzy. If I had to wait long, I was tempted to steal something off someone else's abandoned table; it was that bad. Too many days without enough food had done terrible things to my sanity, and my blood sugar suffered dangerously: No wonder I was shaking all over - a condition that worsened in a place that smelled like this.

Apparently, Pyro was suffering from something similar.

"Hey!" he snapped into the aisle.

St. John looked absolutely furious. I stared at him, then at the short, balding fellow in a black outfit and a white apron who scurried up to us. He flipped madly through his notepad.

"Oh, uh, sir, sorry, sir. And ma'am, ma'am." That was directed at me. He fumbled for a pen. "Can I help you?"

"We've been waiting here for over half an hour," St. John lied through his teeth, scowling darkly. He looked angrier than I'd ever seen him. "What's going on?"

I thought the man's eyes were going to bulge out of his head. "H-h-half an hour! I… I… we… hold on… just… a second…"

My eyes widened, and then a surge of hilarity threatened my neutral expression. Biting my lip, I turned my head towards the wall, too emotionally unstable to risk looking at either Pyro or his unfortunate victim.

"Well, hurry it up!" St. John yelled after him. "Or we'll go somewhere else!"

I heard running footsteps in the direction of the kitchen.

As soon as the man hustled off, I burst into helpless giggles, folded my arms over the table, and dropped my head into them – laughing hysterically, then sobbing, then laughing again in between violent sniffles. Everything inside of me ripped apart, and what little strength I had left drained away.

Trembling all over, I lifted my head at last, my eyes full of tears and mirth. "I... love that trick of yours," I told him softly, sniffling.

St. John had no reaction at all. Wariness shadowed his blue eyes. I dropped my heavy head back into my self-made fortress, emotionally exhausted.

St. John didn't say anything, and I didn't look to see any other expression on his face. My Danger Sense told me that St. John doubted my sanity.

So did I. I stayed where I was, too tired to move. It had been such a long road. And the end was nowhere in sight.


	27. Strangers

For a long time, my head rested on the smooth wooden table, hidden between my folded arms. I was vaguely aware of upbeat music in the background, the tantalizing aromas of delicious hot food, and a stream of exuberant conversation accompanied by hearty laughter. Glasses clinked, ice cubes rattled delicately, and silverware clanged against glass plates.

Ghostly thoughts drifted through my mind without taking root. There was only one thing I knew, and I repeated it to myself over and over:

_I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy._

Then the inevitable question came.

"So..." The bench seat creaked as St. John shifted his weight. "How do you know me?"

It was almost comical, how he schooled his voice into a bored tone – as if the question didn't matter to him. As if he didn't care. As if he didn't _want_ to care.

My Danger Sense told me otherwise.

Even after St. John asked, I stayed where I was – with my head on the table. I didn't want to answer that. In many ways, I didn't _have_ an answer to that.

But it was a valid question, and I couldn't procrastinate forever. With a deep sigh, I pushed myself up and sat back in my bench seat, trying to portray a calm in my expression that I didn't feel.

_How can I tell him – without lying and without telling him everything?_

This was going to be tricky. And my mind wasn't in the greatest shape to tackle the assignment, either. But I had to tell him. He deserved to know... most of what I knew. How would it be in any way detrimental to him?

I took a deep breath and leaned forward, staring St. John in the eyes as I gathered my courage. After a moment of contemplation, I lowered my stare to my clasped hands on the tabletop.

"There's no easy answer to that question, St. John," I admitted quietly. "But I'm not going to lie to you, either." I drew one more breath before the plunge, then looked into his blue eyes. "You... you had the Legacy Virus, St. John."

Real fear flashed across his face, followed by anger and disbelief. "Legacy Virus?" he repeated, glowering at me. Then his gaze drifted away, and the swirl of wild colors in my Danger Sense told me that I'd thrown St. John into a tailspin. At that moment, I was glad I'd told him. Through this whole ordeal, I'd been the one scrambling to keep up with him, rushing to produce impossible answers to his questions. It was nice to knock St. John back on his heels for a change.

His gaze came back to mine, wary and disbelieving. "Are you trying to tell me... that I had the Legacy Virus? That's impossible."

I swept a hand through my hair and smiled ruefully at the irony of it all. "I know. I'm... just as confused as you are, because I was there, when you..." I gulped and choked out the awful truth. "Died." I glanced hesitantly at him, only to find him staring me down. It was a creepy, unmoving, ice-blue stare that revealed nothing of what was going through his mind. Only his hands moved, plucking a napkin from the small pile at one side of the table. He folded it into squares.

"You're saying I died." It wasn't a question.

I faltered and stared down at the table again, uncertain whether to connect the dots for him. At least I hoped he'd get the impression that I wasn't one of the people who'd leapt for joy that the fire mutant had, at last, met his demise.

Sensing that I still had his full attention, I leaned forward again, clasping my hands over the table and meeting his gaze steadily. I didn't want to lose what small progress we'd made, and... I smiled slightly. His eyes were such a beautiful color of blue. Just that morning, I'd been wishing I could see those eyes again... and now I had my wish.

_Aslan, THANK you... THANKyou THANKyou THANKyou..._

Another wave of dizziness swept over me, and I frowned momentarily until the world stopped spinning. I glanced around for a menu, couldn't find one, then looked up at St. John again.

"St. John," I began quietly, "there were so many things that happened, and I was there for all of it. Whatever you want to know, I can probably answer. So ask me whatever you like. In the meantime, I cannot tell you how very hungry I am... I'm about to faint, and I mean that. And I never faint," I added quickly, anxious to not lose whatever standing I'd gained in his estimation. "I just... haven't eaten anything substantial in about a week. So if we could get dinner underway soon, I would really, really appreciate it."

He scowled at me. "Why are you telling me this? I'm not the waiter."

I breathed a weary sigh. St. John was lucky that I wasn't at full strength, or I'd have raked him over properly for his lack of respect – lighter or no lighter.

As if by magic, the waiter appeared just then. He was a spritely older gentleman, and he bestowed indulgent smiles on us. He probably thought we looked like a couple of young people on a date.

"Good evening," he greeted us. "My name is James, and I'll be—"

"Water," interrupted St. John curtly, his attention on the napkin he was folding.

I narrowed my eyes at St. John. The waiter's smile vanished. Immediately I looked up at him with an apologetic smile, but I couldn't hide my desperation when I spoke.

"Water for me too, please, and... what's the fastest appetizer on your menu?"

The waiter, James, regained his smile. He glanced around the table. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Looks like you don't have any menus. Let me go and get—"

"No, please," I cried, holding out my hand to him. "I'm... we're... we're both very hungry. Neither of us have had breakfast. What are your fastest appetizers, James?"

He cleared his throat, and his brow furrowed. "Well, let's see. There's the Bloomin' Onion, or southwestern eggrolls—"

"I'll take both," I said immediately, not wanting to hear any more about food. It made my stomach so angry. Then, thinking of St. John: "Two orders of both. Please bring them as quickly as you can."

The waiter hurried off to fulfill the requests, and with a sigh I tried to still the earthquake in my shaky hands before my gaze flicked back to St. John - and stayed there. He continued staring at me, as if I were a stranger.

Something inside of me softened. _He_ may have been looking into the foreign eyes of a stranger; _I_ was gazing into the familiar eyes of the man I'd chosen to love. His coldness hurt me, without question. I wondered again why his memory had to be gone...

"Am I the one who burnt down my house?"

The blunt question surprised me.

"Yes," I answered after a moment's hesitation, lowering my eyes again. The memory was still a fresh and painful wound. He'd never believe me unless I gave him details, I realized, and I lifted a resolute gaze to his. "You turned on the lightswitch and used... I don't know what, exactly. The energy from it or something, maybe—"

"The heat from it," he interrupted tersely.

My eyebrows shot up. "Oh, alright, the heat from it. Anyway, the lightbulb exploded and you created fire and held it in your hands, and from there you manipulated a series of flames big enough to burn the house down."

A shard of ice pierced my heart. That was less than half the story. Frowning, I swept my hand through my hair again, my fingers twirling through the fringed ends as I tried _not_ to remember the look on his face as he stood over me, sending a stream flames past my face – letting them hover near the surface of my skin. I closed my eyes altogether to block out that horrific memory and replaced it instead with the one of the moment he'd regained his sanity, however briefly, just before he died - when he'd made his final confession.

_I love you, Violar._

My pounding heart settled down. A wave of peace washed over me, and I opened my eyes again to find the waiter serving us our ice waters, then setting four appetizers before us.

"Enjoy your meal," James encouraged with a warm smile.

The aroma made my head swim. With a hungry mumble I snatched two strips of breaded onion and bit eagerly into them, not bothering with the delicious-looking dip that came in a bowl on the middle of the plate. I ate as fast as I dared, trying not to abandon good table manners at the same time, and I watched St. John in between bites.

St. John, at least, made use of the dipping sauce. He was hungry, I could tell, but not famished like I was. And the tiniest tendril of amusement cracked his constant sarcasm.

"Don't choke," he said to me, munching down two slices of Bloomin' Onion.

I stopped mid-bite at his words, my eyes snapping to his with a strip of fried onion clamped between my teeth. Then, as his words sank in, I let out a snort of laughter. And another. And then two more.

"Don't choke..."

Suddenly I exploded in wild fits of giggles, whirling aside and stifling my face in my elbow out of sheer desperation. Everyone in the whole restaurant must have been looking at us by now. I had no resistance to emotion at all right then, so I laughed and laughed and tried in vain to smother my mirth in the crook of my elbow. An incredibly warm sensation of well-being flooded through my body, brought on in part by the return of proper nutrition.

And, of course, St. John's company.

An idea sprang to mind. Butterflies took my stomach by storm.

A moment later I sat upright, fairly glowing with mischief. "I won't choke, but will you?" I teased, giving him a dazzling smile.

St. John looked so caught off-guard and baffled that I almost couldn't contain myself. Plucking twin onion strips from my plate, I plunged the ends into the bowl of orange-toned dipping sauce while I stared down St. John with a look of playful challenge.

"Race you," I told him in a low tone, "and whoever wins without choking gets... dibs on the other person's plate!"

For the first time since I'd run into St. John on that street corner, he grinned at me. My heart soared.

"Don't try, I'll win this," he warned.

I giggled, quivering all over with delight.

"I'm going to thoroughly enjoy your southwestern eggrolls!"

Without waiting for him to react to that, I popped both onion strips in my mouth and seized two others, dipping them while I chewed around mad giggles. Just as swiftly, St. John wolfed down a few pieces of Bloomin' Onion – and he was smiling.

_Oh Aslan! Oh joy! He's having fun with me again!_

I went to work on my Bloomin' Onion as fast as I could until my cheeks were stuffed like a chipmunk's. I couldn't laugh now; I was far too busy chewing madly, and my eyes blazed with competitive fire and sheer delight. I was getting giddier by the second; he had no idea that I was a centaur, or how hungry I was.

But St. John was beating me. He truly was inhaling that onion... and I couldn't keep up with that blistering pace. But I tried, putting up a valiant effort for first place, dipping onion slices two at a time and eating them as fast as I could. I was vaguely aware of some people watching us, but that didn't stop me in the least.

Halfway through my onion, I caught St. John's eye and almost succumbed to another fit of giggles. I paused to swallow a gulp of ice water, slammed the glass back to the table, gave vent to a short laugh, and promptly ate four more pieces of Bloomin' Onion as Pyro mowed through his plate at a startling rate of speed.

St. John copied me and took four pieces instead of two, and a flicker of cunning flashed in his blue eyes. He doubled his eating pace, somehow – raking up that onion four slices at a time. My gaze darted between his plate and mine, and my onion was larger than his.

He was going to win!

Hilarity seized me, and I had to look away with one hand firmly over my mouth before I laughed onion debris all over the table. I couldn't believe I'd been the one to suggest a food race in the first place. Never in my life had I done something so outrageous...

Suddenly the most horrible gagging sound reached my ears. Ice gripped my stomach, and I looked back at St. John. His eyes were wide, and he grabbed his throat with both hands, choking and gasping for air that wouldn't come.

Fear and panic shot through my chest like a white hot knife. _Aslan, no..._

Instantly I spat my half-chewed onions onto my plate, leaped out of the bench seat, seized St. John by the jacket collar, and dragged him into the aisleway. Moving like terrified lightning, I darted behind his back and secured my arms firmly around him, my fists pressed to the top of his ribcage.

"Come on, St. John, breathe!" I cried desperately, nearly jerking him off his feet with every upward thrust of my locked fists - each harder than the last, each a more frantic attempt to dislodge the onions blocking his windpipe. St. John's body was rigid in my arms, and he wheezed over and over. Freezing cold blazed through my veins.

_What was I thinking? By the mane, how could I be so stupid?_

"St. John, breathe!" I pleaded, choking with fright. I gave such a violent push with my fists that I heard him grunt.

Suddenly another emotion I couldn't identify pierced my Danger Sense like a black knife, and St. John stopped moving. I ceased to breathe, my mouth open in wordless shock as I felt strength flow back into St. John's body. His hands slowly dropped from his throat, and then he turned around to face me.

His blue eyes were full of sarcastic mirth and a cold cruelty that cut me to the soul. His cheeks were puffed with onions, and my arms fell away from him as I watched him resume chewing behind a smirk.

My heart began to beat again, pounding and shallow like the heart of a frightened bird. The world around me reeled. Everyone was staring at us, I realized, and the restaurant was dead silent except for the upbeat, energetic music providing an incongruous background for the stunned atmosphere.

_He's fine. He's really fine…_

My whole body went limp with shocked relief. I felt shaky and weak all over.

St. John's snicker brought my gaze back to his face. He stared at me, every pore of his being oozing haughty condescension as he chewed onions behind a growing smile.

_He did this to me… on purpose._

Then, suddenly, I... broke. I simply... shattered, like glass, into what felt like a million tiny pieces. I dropped my head, unable to meet those sardonic blue eyes anymore, and I burst into tears. Sobs wracked my body, sapping the last of my strength as I slid onto my knees. I looked up at St. John for one moment through floods of tears - tears that I'd shed for him over and over and over again for the past two weeks, when he'd been alive and when he'd been dead, until I thought there were no more tears to cry...

My heart broke. _How could you? How could you?_

On my knees, I looked up at him pleadingly, and he stared down at me with a cocky, superior expression – disdainful of my weakness.

That was too much.

I collapsed on his boots and wept brokenly. For one awful moment, I'd thought that I'd killed him: He'd been brought back into my life through some miracle, through some twist of fate I couldn't fully comprehend, and by the will of Aslan I'd found him again... and then I'd suggested a contest on impulse and he'd choked, and such terror had gone through me: The idea of losing him a second time was impossible to bear, and especially if I were responsible for it. And then... it was all a joke to him... and he was laughing callously and looking at me with the same heartless expression he'd worn in that hellish moment he'd sent flames flowing past my cheek to catch my hair on fire...

_I love you, Violar._

I sobbed so hard that I couldn't breathe. Miserably I clung to his ankle, the same way my mind was barely clinging to that one image I had of him - the real St. John, the one I knew still existed... or had, perhaps, existed at one time: The St. John I'd kissed and spoken softly to, and who had returned my love...

_St. John, where are you?_

This wasn't him. This couldn't be him. What if _that_ St. John, _my_ St. John, had died? What if the Legacy Virus had claimed the real St. John and left this monster in his place?

It was as if he'd died all over again.

I curled up around his foot and wept disconsolately in the middle of the Outback Steakhouse, too brokenhearted to care about anything else.


	28. One More Chance

I was too emotionally and physically exhausted to move. Fortunately, I was also too emotionally and physically exhausted to cry for very long. My eyes remained closed after my sobs ceased, and silent tears ran down my cheeks.

_He's gone. I've lost him._

I was devastated. But I lay quietly on the floor, drawing shallow breaths as a strange serenity took hold of me. I'd been through so much sorrow and anguish already that I was simply resigned to my fate.

_What's the use of fighting?_

I was so tired of fighting. But I wouldn't let go of his ankle.

_I made a promise. And I can't keep it._

Part of me refused to accept that. I had too much honor to deliberately give up when I'd made a promise, especially to a man to whom I'd pledged my love. A terrible chill ripped deep into my core.

_What kind of centaur am I? What am I made of?_

I sniffled. _Not much._

So weak… I felt so weak. I didn't have anything left to give. That frightened me, but dully. My mind was shutting down.

St. John's leg shifted in my grasp, and I became aware that he was leaning over me.

"Violar," he whispered, his voice strained and awkward.

My eyes fluttered open. Coherence filtered slowly into my consciousness. With it came the knowledge, first, that I'd been weeping on St. John's boots, and he'd probably get mad and yell at me for it – or worse. The mere thought made me cringe instinctively, and there was an instantaneous flare of panic that shook me further out of my reverie. I never wanted to see St. John angry with me, ever again. I knew firsthand what he was capable of.

Secondly, we were in a restaurant... in Outback Steakhouse... and I was curled up on the floor, sobbing over what might have seemed – to the innocent bystander – a relatively minor incident. A harmless, adolescent prank.

_They're strangers. Their opinions… don't matter._

But it mattered to a warrior centaur. It mattered to _me_. I had enough pride left for that. What people were thinking of me right then, I didn't know... and I didn't want to know... but I could sense things from around the room that I didn't like at all.

With a slight whimper, I pushed myself up, absently brushing away tears and leaving my eyes halfway closed.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. I gave my head a weary shake. "I'm... really sorry."

Without meeting St. John's eyes or anyone else's, I put my hands on the leathery bench seat and levered myself up, then slid into the booth again with my back to the world and my knees pulled up to my chin, my boots resting on the seat itself. My cheeks burned, and I didn't open my eyes after that. I'd never been so humiliated in my life.

Swallowing hard, I turned my head slightly in the direction of St. John's side of the table, my eyes still closed. "You win," I whispered. "Have as much as you want... it's all yours."

I'd lost my appetite.

I felt the bench seat foam sink behind me, but before I could turn and investigate its cause, I knew St. John was there. Instead of returning to his own bench, he'd chosen to sit on my side of the table.

I gulped and froze, not sure what to expect. Was he angry with me? I'd cried all over his boots, after all…

His warm hand touched my arm. The shock of his gentle touch caused my breath to catch.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

I almost couldn't believe my ears. An apology, from St. John? Not even _my_ St. John – the man I loved – was accustomed to admitting that he was wrong about anything. If he made a mistake, he obliterated it with a burst of flames.

At least, that's what my Danger Sense told me.

The tension drained out of me. I lifted a hand to cover his - too late. My fingertips grazed his as they retreated from my shoulder. I settled my hand over the place where his hand had been, as if to preserve the warmth of its brief presence there. I leaned my head back gently against his shoulder.

St. John stiffened, but he didn't pull away.

"I forgive you," I said softly, and I meant it wholeheartedly. Closing my eyes, I shook my head at myself, and I went on in a slow whisper. "I just... I'm so sorry, St. John. It was my fault for overreacting. I just couldn't bear it if you die and I..."

Lowering my knees to one side, I left my boots on the bench seat and turned my body so that I was sitting beside him, but curled up, as I had been that night at his house – the night we'd both been caught in a wrinkle in time. I gazed without interest at the four plates of food in front of us. "I would do anything in the world to keep it from happening again."

My vision blurred with tears, and I bit my lip. Then I felt St. John's gaze on me. Quickly I blinked the tears away and looked back at him, searching his blue eyes - for anything. Some tiny hint of recognition, or tenderness, or... I would have been satisfied if I could've seen even the slightest shade of what had been there before… before the Legacy Virus took him from me.

I wasn't entirely sure, but... maybe it was just my imagination, or desperate hope; causing what I wished for so desperately to become reality. I thought I saw _something_ – a hint of remorse. And he didn't want to be left alone.

"Do… you want to go somewhere else?" he asked quietly, looking at me with an intensity that wrenched my heart.

After a moment, I simply nodded and lowered my eyes. "If you're ready," I replied softly. "We could take this food with us and eat somewhere else, if you're still hungry."

"Sure." His response was rather brusque. He turned suddenly away from me and stuck his hand into the aisle, catching a passing waiter. "Get me the check, now, and a box," he snapped in his usual rude manner.

Swallowing hard, I looked away and chose not to think about it. But another worry had begun to nag at the back of my mind. St. John had requested a check – and that was a good sign. But I remembered all too well the disaster at the Chinese restaurant, which had left us both running from the law. I was in no mood to run from anyone. I didn't have the strength.

I brushed my fingers over the tears on my cheeks, trying to think of what I would do if the worst should happen. Nothing came to mind – because my mind was mush. That left me with only one option: Pleading with St. John, at the risk of his further disdain for my weakness. I closed my eyes as I gathered my courage.

If I could just… say what I needed to say without sounding as desperate as I felt… But did I have what it took to _pretend_ to be strong?

It was time to find out. I turned to St. John and opened my mouth – and stopped. St. John was smiling at me.

It was a half-smile – an oddly companionable kind of grin. But it showed genuine pleasure, and there was nothing malicious behind it.

My heart cautiously levitated with hopefulness, and I smiled shyly back at him. Suddenly I knew that everything would be alright, even before the waiter returned with a black book and a box. The surge of relief through my system was overwhelming.

"Can you get that?" asked St. John absently, pushing the box in my direction as he examined the check with a little frown.

"Yes," I whispered, sliding my boots to the floor and sitting up straight.

As I scraped the southwestern eggrolls into the white Styrofoam box, I kept one eye on St. John. He was scowling at the check, but he leaned to one side, reached for the wallet in his back pocket, and withdrew $30 in paper money. He didn't look entirely happy about paying for a meal, and suddenly it occurred to me that he wouldn't have paid for the meal if he'd come here alone. He was doing it for me.

My hands stilled, and I stared at the bowl of dipping sauce I'd just finished pouring into the box. Before the incident at the Chinese restaurant, I'd been hoping that my influence might keep St. John out of trouble. Tonight, at least, it had worked.

He did have a heart, somewhere. I'd managed to reach it once before. Surely I could reach it again… if only I could be strong enough. I had to try. I'd _promised_ to try. I was risking everything, again, but what more did I have to lose?

Abruptly St. John stood up. "Where are we going, anyway?"

I reached back for my coat. "Anywhere you like," I answered with quiet resolution, standing up beside him. I risked a quick glance around the restaurant, finding a lot of curious stares directed at us. Suddenly I didn't care, and I smiled as I turned back to St. John. "Anywhere at all. I still plan to get you a hotel room for tonight until we can find you a more permanent residence, but it's still light outside. I was wondering if you'd like to visit a park I know on the ocean shore. There's a place where there aren't a lot of people around, and..." I instinctively lowered my voice further, my eyes caught up in his. "I wanted to show you who I am."

If that remark meant anything to St. John, neither his face nor his emotions showed it. He didn't seem to care one way or the other.

"Sure," he clipped. "Let's go."

I reached for his elbow – and caught myself in the nick of time, not knowing what kind of reaction such familiarity would bring out of him. Fortunately, St. John didn't notice. He strode ahead of me in his usual careless manner and shoved the door open, and I followed close behind him. We stepped into a golden New York twilight.

I inhaled deeply, feeling my spirits lift. The clear wintry air tasted so good, even tainted with the metallic chemical flavors of the big city, and I savored the moment.

St. John was already walking down the sidewalk, though he turned to face me, backpedaling. "Park?" he asked curtly.

I smiled back at him with a short nod. "Park," I agreed.

St. John spun on his heel and settled into that cocky stride of his.

Smiling softly to myself, I shadowed him. His habit of not waiting for anyone else to slow down his life was fast becoming a familiar one. Then I bit my lip as a thought struck me: He didn't like anyone slowing down his life or interrupting it for any reason. Even if he had his memory back, how much patience would he have with me now? Why had he kissed me in the first place?

I was _dying_ to ask him that question. Had the morning after our kiss gone uninterrupted, I would have asked him already. There were so many things I wanted to know – _desperately_ wanted and needed to know - and the answers were going to have to wait. Narrowing my eyes, I looked up to the pale golden sky.

_Aslan, are you trying to work on my patience?_ I frowned a little, then added: _Because there are other things I'd rather be patient about, you know. Meaningless things, like... like waiting in line at Starbucks. Or waiting for my lunch break at Bloomingdale's. Those are things I can handle. Working out an uncertain relationship with someone who doesn't even _remember_ me is a whole other animal. Give a centaur a break, will you?_

We made our way down the cracked sidewalk to a lesser-populated part of the city, where men – and a handful of women – wearing sleeveless tunics played basketball on rough concrete courts behind chain-link fences. I slowed my pace to watch. I knew only rudimentary basics of the game, having observed a few matches on the television at the mansion, but I'd never seen one in person.

There was a lot of shouting involved in the midst of those games – "Ball!" "Pick right!" "Switch!" "Cutter!" Games usually consisted of five players per team; and the unique offense-versus-defense strategies were only just starting to make sense to me.

A couple of young men sitting on the sidelines must have gotten bored, because one of them was pretending to be one of those announcer people.

"Brian down low, in trouble on the baseline. Travis hounds him for the ball. He gets away somehow. He finds Drew at the top of the key with a behind-the-back pass. Stripped right out of his hands by Josh! We're going the other way, folks!"

Smiling, I stepped closer to watch the action, enchanted in spite of myself. I gripped the chain link fence.

"Time is winding down on the game clock as Josh brings the ball to half-court. He jukes left, drives right. He looks for an open man. Pick on the blind side by Drake! Josh spins free and takes the open jumper to tie. It rims out! Andre emerges from with the rebound and clears it. This could be it, folks! This could do it!"

I saw a young dark-skinned athletic fellow dash out of the fray, bouncing the orange ball past a line near half-court. When his defender stepped back as if daring him to take the shot, the fellow – Andre – grinned, picked up the ball, and threw it in a long spinning arc toward the basket.

_Swish._

"Ooh!" hollered the announcer, throwing his hands in the air. "Nothin' but net! Drew gives up the shot, and Andre drains the three-pointer to win the game! It's all over but the instant replay, ladies and gentlemen. We're going home!"

I couldn't help laughing.

"Very nice!" I called, caught up in the excitement. When they looked my way, I smiled and waved, then hurried to catch up with St. John – who hadn't so much as slowed down.

It was good to fall in love with New York all over again.

Tossing my shorter hair in the wind, I looked up at the row of leafless trees that lined this part of the avenue. The peach-toned sky hovered between the dark branches. Dried piles of yellow and brown autumn leaves rustled along the road, where a car occasionally passed. We rounded a street corner onto a lonely dirt road, and a whole flock of gray pigeons started and flew straight up before us like a theatrical curtain. I saw our destination ahead: A blue-gold glitter of water through another line of trees stationed by the roadside at regular intervals, along with a black wrought-iron fence which added a halfhearted element of sophistication to the scene.

Caught up in the magic of it all, I would have broken into a run and bounded ahead if I hadn't been holding the Styrofoam box from the Outback Steakhouse. Instead I smiled gleefully, shaking my head as I took it all in.

"Ah, St. John," I breathed. "It's... great to be alive." And I meant that, in so many ways. For the first time since Angel had resurrected me, I felt truly grateful to be living and breathing.

"No kidding," answered St. John tonelessly, looking away from me and into the deserted park.

My smile grew until I had to bite my lip to contain it. St. John hadn't even noticed the beauty of his surroundings. He lived in a black and white world, but I wanted him to see the beauty. I could show him what he was missing.

Darting ahead suddenly, I set the Styrofoam box on a park bench and whirled around to grip St. John by the hand. He looked startled – as if he might pull away. But nothing could deter me now.

"Come on," I urged breathlessly, laughing as I broke into a jog across the grass and headed for the sandy, pebbled beach. St. John had no choice but to keep up.


	29. Wind Dance

My boots sank into the soft sand as I rushed toward the water, but I didn't run far. Energy was a precious commodity, and I wanted to save what little I had – because I would need it. With a brief glance over my shoulder to make sure we were out of sight behind the trees that hid the road from view, I turned to St. John with a bright smile.

St. John was staring at me with what was supposed to be an irritated frown, but a bewildered half-smile spoiled the whole effect. He was enjoying himself, and he couldn't hide it. I choked back a giggle. There was something infectious and irresistible about taking control away from St. John, about persuading him to follow me for a change.

Grudgingly, my Danger Sense told me, he liked it. And he had no idea why.

Giving his hand one last squeeze, I let go and stepped back. By then, apprehension had taken hold of me. It was a strange quirk of mine, but I hated shapeshifting in front of anyone. I'd much rather have sneaked off and shifted forms where no one could watch my transformation take place. This wasn't always possible, especially in emergency situations, but shapeshifting while I was being watched – and watched closely – was definitely not something I enjoyed.

It made me feel vulnerable. It made me feel as if I were revealing a deep secret – about myself. From a more practical point of view, knowing how to turn me from a huge and powerful centaur into a much smaller, less dangerous, humanoid woman could prove advantageous for someone who was intent on killing me.

And St. John had already tried to kill me once. I found it was harder to trust him the second time around.

"This staring contest is… real exciting," St. John muttered sarcastically.

I managed a nervous laugh and averted my gaze from his penetrating stare.

_I can do this. I'm a warrior. I can fight him._

My hands were shaking as I reached for the collar of my blouse, and I lifted the sapphire choker into view. I swallowed hard and tried to suppress the icy coldness in the pit of my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I pressed my clammy palm into the blue jewel.

Immediately, I began to change.

I grew taller first. My booted feet melted into hooves ringed with the golden fur of my fetlocks. Then, quite suddenly, my black skirt whirled dramatically away into nothing to reveal my golden equine-like form. I glanced back at my shiny fur, gleaming faintly with fiery yellow highlights in the late afternoon sun. My snow-white tail instantly came to life, swishing from side to side in agitation, cracking against my hocks.

From my full height of eight feet, I faced St. John and lifted my chin proudly, no longer as nervous. I was a centaur with a rich heritage passed down over thousands of years. If centaurs were kings, I would have had royal blood in my veins. It was through centaurs that Aslan chose to speak to Narnia. And I was a warrior: Fearless, swift, dangerous, surefooted, and strong.

Fire surged through my veins. I was a centaur, and I was proud of it.

St. John stared at me with wide eyes. His mouth dropped open in wordless shock.

Sidestepping once, I was acutely aware of the way my upper body moved in fluid motion with my four slender legs. The wind tossed my dark hair in and around my face. I lifted a hand to sweep the thick locks aside, and I gazed down at St. John.

"This is me," I told him quietly.

His unblinking gaze flicked to my choker, then back into my eyes.

"Holy sh…"

I gave a wry smile when he cut himself off, but I was distracted by the call of the rushing wind and the way it awakened every wild instinct in my body. I trembled all over – not from lack of food or nervousness. I wanted to run. I _needed_ to run.

"Should'a believed those fairy tales I was told," muttered St. John carelessly, but his blue eyes were wide with undisguised wonder as he looked me over. The heat of embarrassment and pleasure collided in my stomach and shattered into butterflies, and I bit the inside of my cheek, waiting until he spoke again. "So… you have the ability to change into some kind of, like, horse-humanish thing?"

Embarrassment and pleasure vanished, replaced by irritation. I tightened my jaw.

"A centaur," I corrected. I might have said more on the subject, but the intense desire to run was growing rapidly inside of me. It was a battle just to keep my hooves still. Sweeping the empty park with one more glance, I looked down at St. John again. "Have you ever ridden a horse before?"

St. John gave me a strange smile. "So you correct me, then call yourself a horse?"

It was all I could do to keep from glowering at him. The way his blue eyes flared with mischief, I knew he was needling me on purpose. My patience evaporated.

"Centaurs have no kinship with either horses or humans," I lectured him in a superior tone. "Aslan - we were made to be centaurs in the first place. I am not a horse, or a mere human girl. I'm a centaur. And a mutant. Keep it straight."

His smile disappeared. His fingers tightened around his lighter. A murderous shadow darkened his blue eyes, but I glared right back at him. On this subject, I refused to back down.

Neither of us moved. After a brief showdown, I snapped my tail and drew a breath. The wind was still flowing through my blood, and its insistent pull was impossible to ignore for long.

"Are you going to answer my question?"

He scowled. "About whether I've ridden a horse or not?"

"Yes, that question."

"No, I haven't. Why?"

Tossing my head, I took two steps backwards, swishing my tail - just for the sake of moving. I didn't like to stand still for long, especially when the wind was calling my name.

"Because I want to show you how to fly," I responded, smiling in spite of myself. Buckling all four of my slender limbs, I sat down in the sand and held out my hand to him. "Come on. It'll be fun. And I won't let you fall, I promise."

I saw him draw a soft breath, and the fiery anger drained out of him – replaced by disbelief. I couldn't help the way my smile widened. Such an offer from a creature straight out of this world's mythology had to have been difficult to resist.

"Come on, St. John," I encouraged, beckoning with my fingers.

With sudden boyish enthusiasm, St. John dashed forward and jumped onto my back. Startled, I let out an, "Oof!" and giggled.

"Flying? I'm all for it!" He slid from one side of my back to the other, settling himself – which was decidedly uncomfortable for me and my dignity. I wasn't used to being treated like a common piece of furniture. But I knew St. John wasn't deliberately being disrespectful, so I merely smiled as he went on. "Let's go. Do I have to dig my heels into your sides to make you go?"

I snorted, amused. "You'd better not," I retorted, sending him a grin over my shoulder. Delight raced through me when St. John grinned back. I laughed, then took his hands in mine and secured his arms gently around my waist. It was oddly gratifying, the way he almost pulled back – as discomfited by this arrangement as I was. But he didn't let go, and I was glad of it.

I lurched to my feet, and he tightened his grip on me. With a laugh, I swished my tail.

"Now, what you want to do," I explained more seriously, "is to press your knees into my shoulders – yes, like that. No matter how hard you dig your knees in, it won't hurt me. That'll help you stay balanced. Also keep your back straight and don't slouch." I had to add that for St. John's sake; slouching was one of his favorite postures, I'd observed. "That's the right way to keep a good seat on a horse – or a centaur, in my case. Other than that, just hold onto me as tight as you can."

St. John took all of my advice, which made me feel more secure. I didn't want to lose my passenger. With one more glance around the park, I turned us straight toward the sunset-gold ocean – and the empty expanse of beach that stretched before us.

"If I get a little carried away and shout 'Yeehaw,' I'm sorry," quipped my passenger.

I huffed at the silly joke, shaking my head.

"Oh, I may just join you in hollering," I responded, smiling at him over my shoulder. "It's rather infectious."

Then a realization struck me, and my smile faded.

That was the second time he'd ever told me that he was sorry for anything. This was, of course, in jest, but still: St. John didn't apologize for anything, ever. It meant a lot to me that he would apologize now, even though he didn't have his memory back – _especially_ since he didn't have his memory back. He wasn't apologizing out of any real feelings for me; he was simply apologizing to me because... because...

I didn't know why. That, in and of itself, made me smile. Not knowing made St. John a mystery to me, and I found I liked that.

I sucked in my breath quickly when his arms tightened around me. "Once again, all the excitement is killing me," breathed St. John. "Come on, let's go!"

My stomach jolted. I wasn't prepared for the effect St. John would have on me, being this close to me – sitting astride my back with his arms around my waist. Turning my head away so he couldn't see my expression, I closed my eyes and endeavored to steel my nerves, willing the sudden tremors running through my body to go away.

_He doesn't feel anything,_ I reminded myself sternly. _To him, this is all fun and games. Let it stay that way. It's for the best._

Then I gave a quick laugh, hoping he wouldn't guess anything was amiss, and I gently slid my hands over the back of his and clasped them. "I won't let you fall, St. John. I promise."

His hands pulled back slightly from mine, as if he weren't used to being touched. Then he relaxed. But a pang of disappointment followed that simple reflexive action. Never mind love; St. John still didn't trust me very much. It didn't surprise me, it just disappointed me. I shook off the feeling with a chuckle.

"I won't let the cannibal grass get you. It eats mutants, you know."

My turn to make a halfhearted joke.

"Oh, sure. That grass looks real dangerous," muttered St. John, shifting impatiently on my back.

"If I move fast enough," I told him lightly, "the grass won't have a chance to get us."

So saying, I broke a springy lope: I wouldn't subject him immediately to a jarring trot, but I was eager to chase some wind. It whipped my short hair back into St. John's face, and I ducked my head to one side when I realized it. One of his hands tore from my grasp and batted impatiently at my wayward locks. I grimaced, slowing immediately to a walk.

"Put your chin over my shoulder," I advised. "It's less painful that way. Sorry about that."

I glanced back in time to catch a brief scowl from him. Then his chin came to rest on my shoulder, and I breathed a sigh of contentment. This was the way things were supposed to be.

I felt St. John's gaze on me. "Don't you need wings to fly?"

A joyous laugh suddenly bubbled up inside of me. I picked up my pace into another lope, my hooves sinking into the gloriously soft sand.

_Love gives you wings,_ I wanted to tell him - but I couldn't. Even if St. John's memory had remained intact, along with his feelings for me, I doubted that such a cryptic statement would've made sense to him. St. John didn't strike me as much of a poet.

"I used to think so," I answered. "But... let me show you how to fly _without_ wings. Just trust me and you'll see what I mean. Trust me?"

I glanced over my shoulder, holding my breath. _Please say you will._

Doubtful blue eyes met mine, and our gazes locked for a long moment. Finally he nodded.

"I trust you, Violar."

Ever so softly, I smiled. That was all I needed to hear – all I needed to feel. Gentle warmth blanketed my soul.

I never broke my smooth, rhythmic strides. I took his hands in mine, tugging them briefly before closing my fingers around them and lifting them away from my waist - just barely - so that all he was holding onto were my hands. It was slightly more precarious, but I had him, and I wasn't going to let him fall.

I wanted him to see that – to feel that. I glanced back at him, watched him struggle with the concept of trusting me to keep him safe. His arms were no longer around my waist, and he could only depend on my hands holding his and the grip of his knees in my strong shoulders.

Then, slowly, he surrendered. His body relaxed, moving in rhythm with mine.

I almost stopped breathing. I couldn't believe this miracle…

Looking ahead again, I gazed up at the glorious sky and twined my fingers through his, locking our hands together into a more secure hold and feeling the harmony running between us. It was thick and tangible, natural and real. It was more than I'd dared hope for.

Sweet emotion knocked against my insides, clanging against the iron walls I'd constructed around my heart, and I looked away as a tear shot down my cheek.

_Oh, Aslan… Aslan._

_Maybe…_

A smile trembled on my lips, though I left my unfinished thought floating in the air. Elation swept across my soul, and I picked up my pace.

As if he'd anticipated the shift inside of me, St. John immediately moved with me. I almost laughed at the sudden joy all around me as my legs moved quicker, my hooves pounding against the sand and kicking up small clouds of it.

The ride was no longer smooth and easy; I was cantering. And then I was switching leads on every single stride until I was dancing in the golden light, laughing as a rush of wind swirled around us to capture us both.

What a moment! It was like a dream – surreal, yet all around me, pulsing like a single powerful heartbeat that brought the very earth to life. Magic tingled against my skin. I breathed it in, unable to get enough. Everything was so beautiful that I could almost hear the strains of sweet music all around me, rising from the crashing surf and echoed in the cries of the gulls above us, reflected in the majesty of the sunset blazing over the sea and pouring out of the heavens in sunrays of fire. The world was alive with it.

I whirled around in a quick circle, caught by the changing winds; laughing because it felt so good to be _alive_ – to see the sun after living so long under a dark cloud of depression and sorrow. All of what had transpired before was forgotten in the here and now. Balancing on my hind legs, I half-reared and spun in a jagged dance. And St. John stayed right with me, his seat rock-solid and unshakable on my back.

Then I straightened out – and broke into a full gallop, heading right for the flaming seas.

The wet sand provided a harder surface beneath my hooves as I moved faster and faster, racing the wind – and winning. I fell into line with the rising and ebbing of the foamy surf and flattened out into my swiftest gallop. White-gray seagulls scattered before the thunder of my oncoming hooves, wheeling around us like a sentient tornado, cooing and catching the contagious joy of two featherless creatures entering the foreign realm of flight; coming close enough to brush their wings against us both.

A wild, giddy sensation took me by storm. I couldn't run fast enough. Energy surged through my body, and I felt my powerful muscles sliding easily beneath my palomino hide. I wanted to buck, I wanted to kick – but St. John was on my back, every bit as exhilarated as I was. I heard his breathless laughter over the roar of the ocean wind.

Suddenly I threw my arms out wide - along with his - and set us both free.

Gathering myself, I leapt straight into the sun, my arms - and St. John's - still flung wide so that, for just one long, breathless moment, gravity lost its oppressive hold on us... and we were flying.

And then... we dropped low, and my hooves barely touched the earth before I sprang up and launched us forward again, kicking out my hind legs into a perfect capriole. Each time gravity brought us down to the sand, I bounded up again, keeping us airborne for several seconds at a time, my gaze lost in the blazing sunset fire. As I looked up at the endless skies in the midst of my own powerful leaps, I forgot that land existed - that there was a city below me. Life, with all its petty worries and duties and deadlines – and time, and death, and everything else that held mortals earthbound – vanished in the face of eternity.

I was laughing: Laughing at the wind, laughing at the feeling of power rippling through my strong legs as I lightly hit the sand and surged back into the air, laughing at the seagulls still flying around us, laughing at the sunset, laughing for the sheer joy of laughing. I kicked my hind legs behind me at each leap, propelling us forward and into the next stride - and the next leap.

Like a huge golden disk slipping behind the clouds, the sun dropped below the western horizon, stealing the fiery light from the eastern ocean. My strength gradually ebbed with its passing. I dropped into lower and lower orbits until finally I came to a halt at the very edge of the sea – the very edge of the world, I felt. As I held St. John's arms toward the sky along with mine, the crying seagulls flew onward without us into the fading golden light.

It was over. My hearts were full, but I knew… I knew that this, that all of this, was a moment that wasn't meant to last. It was only… a gift. One last farewell.

My throat tightened. I wouldn't dwell on what was to come. The future was inevitable, and what would be, would be. I was helpless to fight the tides of time. For now, there was only this moment… and us.

The surf crashed in and washed around my ankles, and the vibrant wind flowed through my shorter, lighter hair. I gazed up as the pale sunset lost its fire, where rays of gold shot through the great columns of smoky clouds and seemed to hint at heaven beyond. Without taking my eyes from the expansive display before us, I gently wound St. John's arms - and my own - around my waist and leaned my head back into St. John's chest. I kept his hands in mine and let him hold me, though he didn't know he was holding me. I felt his chin come to rest atop my shoulder.

A trembling smile remained on my lips at the joy still running through me, though I felt like crying. It was temporal and transient, but it was so beautiful.

I was reluctant to speak at all for fear of bringing us back to reality, because this dream was so much better than the nightmare I'd been living in for the past two weeks... and it was so much better now, when I could forget that St. John had forgotten.

I hadn't forgotten. It was impossible to forget. And everything came rushing back to me with greater force then, as we stood watching the darkening sea turn to shades of gray: The tender kisses, the way he'd looked into my eyes, the gentle shyness with which he'd touched me, the careful way he handled me when he'd bravely picked me up and let me fall asleep in his arms.

_I'll never forget, St. John. I promise._

Two weeks ago, we'd been given a glimpse of eternity. Tonight, we'd had another.

I watched the departing seagulls, and I buried the ache in my heart that always surfaced when I couldn't follow them. There was no need to go anywhere else - even into the sky. I was already standing in heaven - a heaven made of sand and twilight and seafoam that tingled as it evaporated off my fetlocks. I was content to be right where I was. And I could have stayed there forever.

A colder breeze swept over my skin and chilled my wet fur, and I shivered. It had only been a glimpse of eternity. It would have to end, sometime. But I would always, always keep this precious moment close to my heart.

At last I stirred and sighed very deeply. "Tired?" I whispered to my beloved passenger.

He drew his head enough to look into my eyes, and his blue eyes were clear as winter ice. They mirrored the emotion that stirred through my soul.

"Very," he whispered back.

I swallowed hard, gazing into those beautiful eyes, taking in every detail of his youthful, handsome face. I gloried in his rapturous expression. I wanted, so much, just to make him happy. Since the moment I'd met him, all I'd ever wanted was to make him happy. I'd have given my life again just to make him happy.

Tonight, I'd succeeded. I'd taught him to fly without wings, and that had brought him a moment of happiness. The knowledge overwhelmed me.

_Kiss me, St. John. Please… kiss me._

I trembled in his embrace, wondering if he could hear my silent, desperate plea. But his eyes revealed nothing – not even a spark of love.

_He doesn't love me._

My plea faded into silence. I swallowed back my disappointment and focused instead on the wonder that erased the bitter lines from his face and turned him into a boy – a beautiful boy. I watched the wind loosening his soft hair and blowing it around his face, and I reached my opposite hand over my shoulder and touched a few of the soft blond locks, brushing them gently behind his ear.

A fine mist blurred my vision. _I love you so much, St. John. Nothing will ever change that._

My heart tore with the intensity of all the things I wanted to tell St. John – things that would remain unspoken, now. I waited until the urge to cry receded within me, then I gave him a soft smile.

"St. John," I whispered, keeping my voice low so I wouldn't disturb the evening beauty around us. "Do you want to go now, or shall we wait and watch the stars come out?"

His gaze shadowed with thought, and he slowly blinked. My heart tugged at the sight of his impossibly long lashes, and I had to swallow another knot in my throat.

_I'm so happy he's alive._

"I..." He hesitated, weighing my request once more. "I really do want to go back."

He avoided my gaze. My Danger Sense told me that he'd known I would be disappointed.

I tried to smile, but it felt like a sad smile. I wanted to stay there with him, under the stars, standing in the cold Atlantic surf as it washed around my fetlocks and slid the sand out from beneath my hooves. I wanted to share with him my love of the night and the beauty of the stars. But one spark of hope remained: I had been right, the night we'd first kissed, when I'd told St. John that there would be other days and other nights better than that one.

This had been one of those nights. If only St. John knew…

But he didn't remember. I would have to keep that knowledge to myself and carry the memory alone.

"Alright," I acquiesced softly, still gazing into his beautiful eyes and thinking things I couldn't share while I stroked my fingers over the back of his hand. I stood there for another long moment, then reluctantly pulled my hooves from the wet sand and turned sideways, walking slowly along the surf line to wash the sand from my fetlocks and to stretch this time out as long as possible. The tide erased the line of hooves I'd left in the sand during our flight, leaving no trace of the moment but the memory. The light rapidly abandoned the sky, and the few clouds that remained were being swept away by the twilight wind.

I let out a sleepy, contented sigh as I moved steadily down the shore, my arms still twined with St. John's around my waist.

Sand turned to grass beneath my hooves, and the park bench was little more than a shadowed silhouette ahead of us. The white Styrofoam box from the Outback Steakhouse was exactly where I'd left it.

I glanced up at the darkening sky.

_Thank you, Aslan._

I owed him that much after arguing earlier. He had given me – and St. John, both – a gift, wrapped in the wildness of a winter wind. And I thought I heard a voice, wrapped in that same wind, whisper softly in my pointed ear.

_You're welcome, Zephina._


	30. Over The Waterfall

Night fell, with only the distant city lights sparkling on the distant hillsides to break up the shadows around us. Stars came out, but they were difficult to see over the city haze. The glowing clock tower rose above the buildings and their neon signs, and its hands edged towards eight o'clock.

St. John and I were silent as we walked down the sidewalk together – mostly because my mouth was full.

I was _so_ hungry. The mad gallop and a flight on the sunset beach had been deeply satisfying, but the exertion left me a little faint. Fortunately we had leftovers from the Outback Steakhouse, and I couldn't tell whether St. John was being gallant or truthful when he'd claimed he wasn't hungry.

And I wasn't in the mood to play the game New Yorkers called Twenty Questions. I took his claim at face value. Without another word, I popped the box lid and devoured the last of the Bloomin' Onions and both Southwestern eggrolls.

They were _so_ good. And they were sizable, thank Aslan. I was careful to clean every delicious crumb from the smooth Styrofoam interior of the to-go box, and then I closed the empty container with a little sigh of relief. Already I felt strength and new life flowing through my veins again. The dull whirling in my head evaporated. I studied my surroundings with greater interest: Tarnished pools of yellow light spilling across silent streets and empty basketball courts in this lonely part of town. Neon signs, some only half-illuminated, advertised a few laundromats and crummy diners further down the street. Roads branched off into tumbledown neighborhoods with poorly-maintained vehicles parked on tired, weed-infested driveways.

St. John seemed at home here. I guessed that he preferred haunting the quieter fringes of the big city, just to keep to himself. I found a sense of security in St. John's presence: I was a warrior centaur and more than capable of handling myself, even in a bad part of town. I'd done it before – on purpose. But with St. John, I never had to give a second thought to the unsavory characters who lurked in alleyways and slouched on street corners, or gathered beneath graffiti-covered overpasses to engage in illegal transactions such as drug dealing. Alisha had explained that ugly, self-destructive habit to me, and I thanked Aslan that Narnia had never experienced any sort of drug problem – except for perhaps the White Witch's Turkish Delight. Then I thanked Aslan that the White Witch had been dethroned four years before I'd been born.

Dangerous people recognize other dangerous people when they see them, and no one dared provoke St. John. Some stared warily at us as we passed. Whether these people were aware of St. John's reputation or not, his cocky body language was more than enough to keep them at bay.

St. John glanced at the clock tower. "There's a Marriott Hotel right at the corner there," he said, pointing to his left.

I looked over at the tall building he indicated, rising against a dark New York sky, and read the large red letters on the side that spelled out _Marriott_. If St. John said it was a hotel, I was going to take his word for it.

"Alright, let's go there," I murmured in a quiet, decisive tone.

St. John glanced at me, holding my gaze longer than absolutely necessary. I looked back at him and wondered what thoughts ran behind those enigmatic blue eyes. Every second that his gaze lingered on me caused my heart rate to speed up, and I gave him the softest smile.

Immediately St. John faced forward and strode ahead with definite purpose, leaving me to sort through fresh disappointment.

_Quit hoping, Violar. It won't hurt so much if you just let go._

I stared at the cracked sidewalk as I trailed after St. John. That thought was true, and I knew it. But I still had my promise to cling to. I wasn't ready to make such a drastic decision, so I did the next best thing to giving up hope: I quit thinking.

The grand entrance of the Marriott seemed out of place in such a rough part of town. The large parking lot had only a few cars parked here and there, but they were nice cars – shiny, sleek in design, and well-kept. I glanced at the nearest one, a black Jaguar – or so it said. The car had lovely lines sculpted into its shiny metal surface. A lithe silver jaguar figurine perched on the car's hood. Even a Narnian could tell that it had taken substantial wealth to purchase that vehicle.

The moment we stepped into the spacious hotel lobby, I had to pause and take stock of my surroundings: High ceilings soaring above, fine marble tile floors and walls highlighted by oak columns, gleaming gold chandeliers, and fancy red carpet just beyond the polished lobby. Soft classical music washed over me, lending an additional element of sophistication to the lobby. Two neat women in smart dark green uniforms stood behind the wooden desk, their perfectly-coiffed heads lowered over some paperwork. A glass elevator dominated in the center of the room, and a few well-dressed businessmen with luggage in tow were talking on cell phones while the elevator hoisted them up, up, up to a higher floor.

After wandering through the run-down streets of the dark side of New York, my senses needed a chance to recover from the shock of such grand magnificence – like stepping into the sunlight after spending a few days in a cave.

I almost felt shy about depositing my empty Styrofoam box into the cylindrical garbage can located in such a regal setting. Somehow, even the garbage can was too good for common trash.

"Nice place, St. John," I murmured in awed admiration. Despite the shabbiness with which he'd kept his house - and himself - St. John obviously had good tastes. "This is perfect."

St. John answered with a grunt as he brushed past me and headed for the counter. I continued looking around, caught up in the artistic beauty of this rich atmosphere. It was like finding a castle in the middle of New York. The chandelier alone was the most impressive light-giving creation I'd ever seen. It was bright gold with seemingly hundreds of identical curved branches, each of which cupped a tapered light bulb at its end. Hundreds, if not thousands, of delicate crystals hung in glittering strands from the golden branches. The effect was so dazzling that I almost couldn't look at it.

As if in a daze, I moved past the curved staircase that led to a higher level overlooking the lobby, my boots clicking on the marble floor. I found a charming alcove with gentle, indirect lighting and fine furnishings arranged around a cozy fireplace. The velveteen brown couch and the matching chair offered a silent invitation to tired travelers, and an elegant gold lamp with a square green lampshade stood at attention on an end table. Since plenty of light came from the ceiling, the lamp was clearly there for decorative purposes only.

My attention turned to the fireplace, which had three bronze statues resting on the mantel – one of a standing horse, another of a stately elk, and the third of two stoic cherubs cradling a clock for the centerpiece. The three statues made for a fascinating combination. Over the statues hung a large painting in subdued colors of a golden field beneath an azure sky. A lone tree took up the left side of the field. There wasn't so much as a cloud or a bird in the sky, and no breath of wind stirred the golden grasses or the leaves on the tree. I studied the painting in puzzlement: The scene felt empty and incomplete, like a stage without actors. What had the artist been thinking, creating a backdrop for nothing at all?

Unable to come up with an answer, I looked to the fireplace itself – made of gray stone and dark oak with gold accents. With a second glance at the grate, I realized the fire wasn't real: The flames were too uniform, and the log formation didn't burn.

I caught my breath. It was similar to the bonfire that perpetually burned in the centaurs' Council Ring in Narnia. Outside of the Council Ring, I'd never seen anything like it – in New York or elsewhere.

I sensed St. John's presence behind me before I heard his footsteps on the marble floor. With a glance over my shoulder, I smiled eagerly at him.

"Look," I breathed, pointing at the fire. "It's magic."

Abruptly a flare ignited in my Danger Sense and I jolted, realizing my mistake. The last thing I should have done was to show St. John a source of fire. Then again, he had his lighter perpetually strapped to his wrist. Still, I mentally kicked myself for putting forth the temptation. I had to be more careful.

St. John merely snorted. "Whatever. Ready?" It was rhetorical question. He was walking off before I could think up an answer.

Mutely, I turned and trailed after him. We made our way back across the impressive lobby and stopped in front of the glass elevator. St. John pushed a button, and I looked up to watch the glassed-in elevator car descend with a gentle mechanical hum.

The doors opened. Only then did it hit me: I was about to step willingly into an enclosed space, then trust this contraption to hoist me into midair.

_How strong is the glass? What if I fall right through?_

St. John never hesitated. Once he was inside, he turned around and faced me with impatience written all over his expression. "Get in already. We're on the third floor. Room 362." He waved a tiny white envelope at me. "Unless you want to spend the night in the lobby."

His comment needled my pride just enough that I immediately mustered my courage and stepped into the elevator. I gulped as the glass doors slid closed after us, and I gripped the cold polished railing as I stared out at the view from the back window: An indoor jungle surrounding a blue pool, complete with a waterfall on one side and colorful flowers that bloomed—

The elevator lurched upward. It was a controlled lurch, but it caught me by surprise, and I tightened my hold on the railing and braced my feet as we were lifted soundlessly into the air at a surprising rate of speed. My stomach was left on the ground floor. I stared hard at the impossible aquamarine blue of the pool, and I could smell the chemicals they put in the water – _coloring_, I think Alisha had called it when I asked about the clarity of the pool on Xavier's grounds. They put coloring in it to keep the algae from growing. It smelled strong enough to bother me, and something in the back of my head – like an instinct – seemed to warn me that this coloring stuff was poisonous.

My stomach clenched when the elevator drifted to a stop, and the clear doors slid open. I stayed where I was, looking down at the beautiful pool with the lights shining beneath the blue water and listening to the rush of the waterfall as I focused on deep, even breathing.

"Violar?" A gentle hand briefly touched my arm.

I drew one more shaky breath, pried my fingers from the gold bar, and managed a smile at St. John. "I… I've never ridden in one of these before," I explained softly. "It's a bit of an… experience."

That actually made him smile. He turned toward the elevator window and gazed down at the pool, standing right beside me.

"Hotels are one of my favorite things," he explained. "I like this one."

I couldn't tell which calmed me more – St. John's closeness to me or his words. He wouldn't harm a hotel he liked. The people here were safe, and so were we.

"I can understand why," I murmured, letting my gaze follow the gushing whitewater as it spilled over the sculpted rock ledge. "I've never seen anything like it, St. John. Although, where I come from…" My smile grew. I relished opportunities to share about the beauties of my homeland. "Where I come from, we don't need to build settings like this one. They already exist, naturally. There's a place in the Great River where a waterfall crashes down into a pool like that – maybe a little bigger – and the otters often play there. On sunny days, rainbows catch in the curtain of mist kicked up by the falls. We used to try and catch those rainbows, although it was impossible. Behind the waterfall is a secret cave. The otters know about it, and I know about it, and so do a handful of other creatures who are friendly with the otters. But we like to keep that secret to ourselves."

St. John chuckled drily. "I wouldn't tell anyone, either."

I glanced sideways at him. _I'm sure you wouldn't._

"See the flowers they have planted along the rocky ledge?" I went on, pointing. "This place in Narnia also has flowers, only they're climbing roses on just one side of a cliff next to the waterfall. This is a little more elaborate, a little more uniform… a little less wild."

A slight furrow marred St. John's smooth brow. "I don't remember what those flowers are called."

I stared down at the flowers in question. They were elegant flowers – most of them white or soft pastel pink and purple blooms with darker hearts. Each bloom had a distinctive sideways-oval shape, like open clam shells – or more like smooth scallop shells.

"They almost don't look real, do they?" I wondered with a soft laugh.

St. John shrugged. "Depends on what real flowers look like where you come from."

I lifted an eyebrow, then studied the flowers again. "I hadn't thought of that, but you're right. I suppose I always took the climbing roses for granted, even though I never failed to admire them each time I passed. Well, except for once."

St. John glanced at me with a curious smile. "What made you ignore them?"

A thrill of pleasure and contentment ran through me, and I blushed, biting my lip. There were times when my life came full-circle. This was one of them.

"That was the day I first attempted to fly."

"Did you?" St. John gazed intently at me.

I breathed a sigh, staring at the waterfall – then into St. John's ice blue eyes. "For one beautiful, glorious moment, yes, I flew. Then gravity pulled me back down to reality."

St. John actually grimaced. "Were you hurt?"

"Sprained fetlock and wounded pride," I answered, but I was smiling.

Vague relief swept over St. John's normally sullen expression. Then he lowered his eyes to the elevator floor, and I became aware for the first time that the glass doors had closed. We were suspended on the third floor, in a small elevator car, and – at least for the moment – I was fine.

"I just… wanted to say…" I tilted my head in puzzlement as St. John struggled for words, and he didn't look at me. "What you did… at the park. It was special. Thanks for, well, you know, letting me fly with you."

My heart warmed. On impulse, I reached over and touched his elbow. St. John's eyes came back to mine, and he didn't pull away.

"It was an honor," I answered with deep sincerity. "It takes two to fly."

Surprise spread across St. John's features, followed by the flash of his signature cocky grin.

"Yeah right." He scoffed and stepped away from me as he pushed the button to open the door. "You don't need me to fly, Violar." He grinned at me over his shoulder. "You do just fine on your own."

The air left my lungs. My hand tightened on the gold railing. I could only stare at him as his words echoed through my head.

_You don't need me to fly, Violar. You do just fine on your own._

Had St. John and I not flown for a while in the weightless euphoria of love before gravity pulled us back to reality? Had I not suffered the greater equivalent of a sprained fetlock and wounded pride all over again? Was this what came of chasing the wind and learning to fly?

With another chuckle and a shake of his head, St. John strode out of the elevator, leaving me to follow him in my own time. An awful sense of foreboding closed over me as I looked down at the waterfall once more.

_No – no. That's not… This is different._

_You're just tired. You only want to give up because you're exhausted._

_I made a promise. I have to keep it._

Taking firm hold of that belief and letting the rest of my thoughts get swept over the ledge with the thunderous waterfall, I straightened up and resolutely exited the glass elevator.

**Author's Note:** I'm curious to know if anyone can identify the flowers at the Marriott on Violar's description alone. All I can confirm is that it is a common, familiar flower. Please take a moment to comment with your best guess!


	31. Dragon in the Wall

St. John was quick. And he'd gotten a head start on me. I had to follow the signs down the posh green-carpeted halls toward Room 362, and I found St. John just as he was slipping a card from the white envelope and running it through a device remarkably like the card readers at Xavier's Institute. There was a faint click, and a green light on the door flashed into existence.

Abruptly he turned to me with a serious expression. "Be warned, the rooms are better than the lobby."

I blinked and looked confused. The mutant's ice blue eyes lit up, and he chuckled – producing a similar bewildered reaction from me.

_He's… By the mane. He's teasing me._

Brow furrowed, I watched him turn the handle and open the door into a magnificent room. Hesitantly I followed him inside, peering around. It smelled of something that was supposed to mimic fresh air with a delicate fragrance. Two beds with matching royal burgundy-colored quilts stood against one gold swirl-textured wall, matching the burgundy window curtains, and the ornate gold frames on the scenic wall paintings were fit for the chambers of Cair Paravel.

I looked down at the plush carpet beneath my boots, then took in the rest of the furnishings: A small oak table with two chairs, a comfy burgundy chair, a desk with a lamp, a nightstand with another lamp, and a large oak-colored armoire with a sizeable television. Next to the armoire sat a small black refrigerator and a black microwave.

I'd been in New York for almost half a year, and I'd seen the Marriott's flamboyant lobby. Still, this hotel room surpassed my wildest imaginings.

I had an idea.

A devious smile curved my lips, and I quickly hid the expression behind an appraising frown. I folded my arms across my chest as I turned to face St. John, and I put on my best disdainful attitude.

"_Better_ than the lobby?" I stared doubtfully at St. John. "There are no waterfalls in here."

I caught the hint of a smile before St. John matched my frown. "Waterfall? Who said there wasn't one?"

He marched right past me. Curious and intrigued, I followed him as he passed through another door which led to the very bright, spacious bathroom.

_What is he doing?_

St. John headed straight for the gold-accented sink and turned the water on.

"See, mate?" St. John turned to me, smiling in triumph. "Waterfall. Even better, it's mini!"

I burst into startled laughter and stepped back as St. John came toward me, leaving the water to run. "I shall certainly never see a faucet the same way ever again," I remarked, aware of a nervous fluttering in my stomach as St. John passed me by.

Under pretense of watching the little waterfall in the sink, I kept my back to St. John for a moment longer. With the exception of Angel, I'd never been alone in a room with a man before. It was vaguely frightening. Dire circumstances had forced me here, but that didn't change anything from my side of the equation: I was a Narnian, I had my honor to fiercely protect; and I loved St. John. As long as St. John didn't love me in return, there would be a measure of safety for me.

Or so I hoped.

But I couldn't place much confidence in St. John's apparent lack of interest in me. I couldn't afford to let my guard down. St. John had kissed me once before after laughter and a pillow fight had softened him up. Tonight, we had eaten dinner together, then shared a flight in the park and a walk through the city at night – as well as a pleasant conversation in an elevator car overlooking a waterfall. Who knew what might happen between us?

I swallowed hard and clasped my hands, which were trembling. I had put myself in a dangerous place. More than likely, I would have to wage war against my own heart – against love itself.

Taking a bold step into the bathroom, I shut off the waterfall. I glanced at my own reflection in the large mirror long enough to smooth back my hair and wish away some of the flushed color in my cheeks. Then I turned around to find St. John slumped on the edge of one bed, and he simply fell backwards with a deep sigh. His dirty blond hair scattered haphazardly around his youthful face.

Realization struck me: St. John softened and relaxed his defenses when he was tired. That was the only explanation I could think of for the way his attitude had gradually changed towards me that night.

Stiffening my inner resolves – resolves that would keep me out of danger, but would hopefully draw me closer to St. John – I moved to his side and gazed down at him. His eyes were closed.

"Hey, tired one, you should get some sleep," I told him softly, wishing I could sit beside him and stroke his soft hair - but not daring to take the liberty. I'd pushed my luck as far as I was willing to push it in one day while he still didn't remember me.

He groaned softly, kicking off his boots with his eyes still closed in a gesture of surprising trust. "Gladly."

I stopped breathing.

_Gladly._

Sudden tears caught in my throat. The last time he'd told me that, he'd kissed me.

I gazed down at his young face, peaceful and sleepy. My eyes fell to his soft lips. I wondered what would happen if I sat down gently beside him, then took his face in my hands and kissed him…

_Either he'll be furious or he'll get the wrong idea._

_Or he'll kiss me back._

I stood there, frozen. It wasn't a risk I could take.

Swallowing hard, I willed myself to step past the bed and toward the window. The burgundy curtains were parted just enough to allow a glimpse into the darkness. The stars were shining, but their brilliance paled to pinpricks in comparison with the lights of the city below – yellow streetlights, bright neon signs, and streams of red and white from passing cars on dark roadways.

"It's like a castle," I murmured, almost desperate for something to say – anything to change the subject. "This place… is like a castle. I don't know how... I mean... this is so..."

There were no words to describe how I felt about the Marriott hotel, even before I'd been rattled by my thoughts regarding St. John. And there were other factors to consider – such as the knowledge that St. John didn't know who I was. I'd seemed like a crazy woman when we met on that street corner, yet he'd allowed me to accompany him all over the city, to dinner, and then he'd brought me to this hotel – trusting me enough to let me sleep in the same room.

At once I was overcome by a sense of awe. "Thank you for bringing me here," I whispered without turning around.

He sighed deeply. "You don't need to thank me."

I stilled completely. The only sound in the room was the creak of the bed as St. John turned onto his side and the sudden pounding of my heart.

_You don't need to thank me._

The prelude to our first kiss.

I looked out the window for a moment longer, but I realized I wasn't seeing any of the beauty around me anymore. Memories and feelings I'd suppressed for sanity's sake were breaking through the ice around my heart, and it hurt.

_I can't… think about any of this right now._

I brushed away my tears, fighting against my own fatigue to stay strong for St. John's sake.

_I'll always love you, St. John. I'm going to do everything I can for you, even if you don't love me. That… that doesn't matter. I love you, and that's all that matters._

Turning at last, I saw St. John put up one last exhausted struggle before simply curling up at the end of the bed, passed out on top of the burgundy quilt with his feet hanging over the edge. The sight gripped my heart and twisted it.

_I can't just... let him stay there._

I waited until I was pretty sure he was - at least mostly – unconscious. With his senses dulled, I reasoned that he would be safer to handle and less likely to hurt me. Then I moved to the other bed, which would be mine for the evening, and peeled back the quilt. I found a thick blanket and a sheet underneath, and I pulled the blanket off before replacing the quilt.

_Now for the difficult part._

Leaning over St. John, I carefully gripped the back of his leather jacket and placed a supporting hand beneath his knees. I scooted his body further onto the mattress – murmuring soft nonsense out of habit to soothe him and let him know, by the sound of my voice, that it was only me.

St. John groaned and shifted, but he never surfaced from his slumber.

Then I grabbed one of the pillows from beneath the thick comforter - noticing, for the first time, that there were more pillows on his bed than I had ever seen on one bed before. Carefully I picked up his head and slid the pillow beneath his cheek, then settled him onto it, brushing my hand lightly over his blond hair - finally. I'd been longing to run my fingers through his hair all evening. My heart ached at the softness of it.

Lastly I took the spare blanket and pulled it over St. John, tucking it gently around him. He never stirred. I wrinkled my nose at the pungent odor of his socks, then smiled wistfully. After that one night two weeks before, I would never feel the same sense of complete disgust for dirty socks.

_Focus, Violar._

At last I was done. I went around the room, shutting off lights. Then I sat down on my own bed and sighed - a mixture of several emotions at once washing over me: Contentment, anxiety, and euphoria among them. What a day it had been. That morning seemed an eternity ago, and I'd awakened to the reality that St. John was dead. Now he was alive and sleeping in the bed next to mine.

_What a strange world._

I felt as if I'd lived an entire lifetime in a single day. But this day had to end sometime.

Reluctantly I tugged off my boots, setting them neatly together by the bedstand, and slipped beneath the covers.

At once I smiled. The mattress felt marvelously comfortable. It was soft, but firm and supportive. I'd never experienced a bed as luxuriously comfortable as this. There were fully four pillows along the headboard, but I only needed one, so I made a stack out of the other three for the amusement factor and grinned at my little creation. Then I clicked off the last lamp and tucked my hands behind my head, gazing up at the dark ceiling and thinking about everything that had happened… and wondering what tomorrow would bring.

_No, don't think about tomorrow. Just live in the present. Just enjoy the moment._

But how could I? Once before, I'd tried that. I'd slipped through a narrow window of opportunity and fallen asleep in St. John's arms, content with the present – little knowing how quickly tragedy could strike.

_Blop._

Frowning, I blinked open my eyes. Strange. I thought I'd heard a—

_Blop._

I turned suddenly, and I gasped in horror at the sight of the textured wall – which was bubbling like thick molasses. Panic crashed into me, and I was instantly wide awake. Ripping off my blankets, I shoved away from the pillows and scrambled to the foot of my bed, crouched down and staring as a large, scaly red snout full of sharp teeth emerged from the boiling wall and protruded slowly over St. John's bed.

By the time its burning deep-set eyes had come out of the wall, I could tell the thing was a dragon – a massive, skeletal, blood red dragon with black sockets for eyes and hundreds of long, thin fangs crammed into its powerful jaws.

I stopped breathing and crouched there, quivering all over. The wall stretched and peeled off of the beast's neck like Saran Wrap, and it didn't seem to see me. Its focus was on St. John. It eyed its prey, tilted its enormous head to one side, and grinned – a hideously evil grin.

My mind froze up. I couldn't even cry out for Aslan.

The grinning monster reared up until its head and long neck nearly brushed the high ceiling, and more of its body pulled through the wall. Short, dinosaur-like forelimbs emerged with claw-like black spikes at the joints, and with a devilish leer, it poised its reptilian four-toed claws over St. John.

It was going to grab him!

And then I was absolutely furious. Heat surged through my blood. I had not found St. John only to lose him again to a monster!

Leaning down, I snatched a knife from my boot and jumped into a fighting crouch on the firm mattress, glaring at the red dragon. I bared my teeth.

"Get away from him," I snarled.

The beast stopped. Slowly it swiveled its head towards me, and one beady deep-set black eye fixed on my knife. And then, to my surprise, it began to chuckle low in its throat, as if it found something outrageously funny.

I blinked in confusion, then looked down at my dagger, and I began to realize how utterly ridiculous it was to be facing a dragon with the equivalent of a pin for a weapon.

A shiver ran down my spine as I glared at the laughing red monster. St. John and I were in trouble.


	32. Dark Reality

The dragon's harsh laughter raked across my sensitive ears. Then its merriment gave way to a low, menacing hiss as it lowered its head to my level and stared at me. The spikes around the dragon's neck flared to make its already enormous head look bigger, and its jaw opened and closed periodically like the mouth of an oversized eel.

"Stab me, stab me!" the horrible creature taunted in a guttural tone. "Do you really think that knife will cut through _me_, you stupid girl?"

I stood atop my unstable bed, glowering at the red dragon. _No_. No, I didn't really think my knife would stop a beast like that. But I refused to stand by and let it have St. John.

I never lessened the intensity of my glare, but doubt shook my courage somewhat. It _was_ a bad idea to be standing there, threatening a dragon with a dagger. If I had been facing the creature alone, I'd have been counting avenues of escape or saying my last prayers.

But I wasn't alone. It wasn't only my life at stake. St. John had just been brought back to life, and I was not about to let some lousy dragon kill him again.

"What do you want?" I gritted out, consciously stalling for time.

"Nothing to do with you!" the dragon boomed. A red light sprang into its eyes. "Now stop interfering."

With a quick forward jab, the beast pushed its snout against me. I was knocked right over - the trouble with standing precariously on a mattress - and bounced down onto the bed. Immediately I rolled off the bed and scrambled to my feet, my heart thudding in my throat as I clutched my knife.

The dragon ignored me and reached down with its clawed forelimbs, grasping at the unconscious mutant. It was picking up St. John!

Panic gripped me. I didn't know if that evil creature was going to eat him, or what, but I wasn't about to wait around and find out.

With a guttural cry, I dashed around my bed and made a flying leap for the dragon, burying my knife deep into its thick, ugly paw. The dragon swung its head toward me, and a deafening roar blasted me in the face, blowing my hair back. The stench of its foul breath made me nauseous.

With a quick movement of its injured paw, the dragon dislodged the knife and threw me backwards. I slammed against the wall and slid to the floor, still gripping my knife, but I climbed determinedly to my feet. My eyes burned with battle rage as I stared at the trail of blood dripping off its claws. The beast turned its gaping jaws towards me, and its black eyes gleamed murderously.

"I said, don't interfere!"

It lunged at me with enormous open jaws and gleaming teeth. My blood was on fire, and I charged forward at the same instant and made a stab for the long tongue curling around its maw like a fat red snake. My dagger struck home and pierced deep.

"Leave him alone!" I snarled back.

The dragon jolted, and a flare ignited in my Danger Sense as it twisted its head to one side. Pain shocked through my arm where my skin made contact with the monster's teeth. The razor-sharp points slashed my forearm and parted the skin as easily as if my skin was made of butter, and we jolted backwards at the same moment. Blood ran down my arm; the way the dragon flicked its tongue irritably and snapped its jaws open and shut told me that its mouth was bleeding also.

The black eyes glittered with hatred and triumph. "I've been in his head all along," it hissed. "You can't change a thing, foolish girl. You'll only get yourself killed."

Gritting my teeth against the searing pain, I yanked my wounded arm close to my chest and glared at my enemy.

"You miserable dragon," I seethed. I was beyond fear by then: The creature had drawn my blood, and I could feel it trickling down my arm. The sensation flooded me with such a violent rage that I trembled under its dark power. "What do you mean, you've been in his head all along? What do you want?"

The dragon flared its scaly nostrils and snorted contemptuously. Twin puffs of black smoke erupted into the hotel room. "I do not want anything, I was _sent_."

"Sent by who?" I shot back, trying to ignore the chilling pains rippling through my injured forearm. My hand clenched against the dagger's hilt, ready to stab the beast if it made another lunge at me like the first one. Next time, I didn't plan on missing.

The dragon almost smiled. "By the devil himself."

A shudder went through my body. I stood a little taller, glaring at the dragon from beneath scowling eyebrows. I remained silent.

The dragon didn't like that. Its smile vanished.

"What connection do you have to the boy?" it demanded.

I lifted my chin. If the dragon didn't know the truth already, it soon would. "I have a heart connection with him," I replied, my voice deadly quiet. "He may not remember me, but by the mane of Aslan, I love him. That love will destroy you in the end."

The dragon's sickly grin widened, the arrow at the corner of its mouth rising. "As long as I'm around, he'll never remember you. I'm controlling his thoughts. I'm the one holding back his memories of you. How can he love a girl he doesn't remember?"

I tightened my jaw. "Even if you keep those memories from him, love – and Aslan – will prevail." I spoke with bared teeth. "You underestimate us."

The dragon chuckled, shaking its massive head. "Foolish girl. Your mortal mind cannot begin to fathom the extent of my power over him, nor will you ever understand fully what I am capable of. You can't get rid of me, and I will never release him." It lowered its voice to a menacing baritone, fixing a malicious black eye on me. "Give up."

It was a horrific battle just to remain expressionless, to hold back the feeling of complete helplessness. What chance did I have against a beast like this?

A glimmer of ruthless joy in the monster's face told me that it hadn't failed to recognize how its dreadful words struck home.

Swiftly, I changed the subject. "Why did you send him back here?"

The massive jaws parted in a shout of laughter that shocked my eardrums, and the huge black eyes actually rolled. "Dear girl," it said, as if lecturing a child, "you ask too many questions. But I will tell you this: He is now immortal. I was told to keep him alive. You have no idea about the crimes this man has committed. You cannot begin to imagine what he is capable of, and we want him to reach his full potential. He can't do that if he's dead. So to keep him alive, I cursed him with immortality. When he finds that out, he's not going to want to waste his emotions on love when he knows full well that you will wither away while he lives until the end of time."

I felt the color drain from my face. "Liar," I accused, but something warned me that it was indeed true. The evidence was overwhelming: St. John was alive against all odds, and here I was, talking to a dragon. And the creature was right: St. John didn't need much of an excuse to blow me off, as his reaction to anything that could potentially hurt him was violence. The implications of that alone were staggering.

As if sensing victory, the dragon spoke again. "Your determination will get you nowhere. Give up."

My stare faltered, but I forced myself not to contemplate the full weight of the dragon's words right then and sift them for truth and lies - not when it was still standing there, threatening St. John and myself. Mustering a glare, I looked the beast in the eyes.

"Never. If you want him alive so badly, you'll have to deal with me first."

The dragon gave a derisive snort. "Don't be silly. I'm simply checking up on him." Turning its back on me, the dragon moved its claws towards St. John again.

I gripped the haft of my knife tighter, ignoring the glacial cold in my wounded arm – though I had difficulty closing my fingers around the weapon because of it. I didn't believe the beast, and I couldn't physically stop it. My one consolation was that the beast had no interest in killing St. John.

I tried to keep my arm, and my voice, from shaking. "Who are you?"

The dragon twisted its scaly head around and pinned me with a black gaze that literally paralyzed my body, and I gritted my teeth against a sharper frozen shock from the deep gash in my arm.

"Your worst nightmare," it snapped with an evil, toothy grin. "That was your last question."

Suddenly the dragon lunged for St. John just as leathery bat-like wings pulled through the wallpaper. One black wing snapped open and struck me in the stomach, throwing me backwards. I crashed into the coffee table with a startled cry, still clutching my knife. My head knocked against something hard.

There was a blinding flash of white, followed by stars and colorful spots that obliterated my vision. I gave my head a quick shake to clear it, then pushed myself out of the rubble and jumped to my feet, intending to leap at the dragon…

Which had disappeared without a trace. St. John sat up in bed, blinking sleepily at me and frowning in irritated confusion. The bedside lamp was on.

"Violar? What are you doing?"

A tremor ran through me, and I looked around, half-expecting the dragon to reappear at any moment. I brought my wide-eyed gaze back to him. "Are you alright?"

A dark frown instantly consumed his face. "Maybe I should ask you the same question."

I straightened up, my pride needled. After all I'd been through on his behalf, that he could still treat me that way…

I bit my lip hard to keep from saying something I'd later regret. "No, if it isn't obvious, I'm not alright. We had a visitor tonight, and as you can see, it…"

I lifted my arm – and trailed off. The freezing cold and the searing pain I'd been trying to ignore was gone. I stared in dawning shock at the "knife" I held, which was nothing more than a plastic spoon and a folded napkin wrapped together in thin plastic film. It had come on a tray with the complimentary coffee service. I whirled, staring at the overturned coffee table. One of the glasses was shattered to bits on the carpet and the coffee maker had been knocked on its side.

I began to shake all over. My numb fingers uncurled, and I dropped the spoon to the floor as I turned my forearm toward my horrified gaze.

Not a scratch.

Stiff and hesitant, I touched the smooth skin. A shiver raced down my spine, and my jaw began to tremble.

"I… I had a frightful nightmare."

Without looking at St. John, I moved toward the foot of my bed and sank down onto the tousled quilt. My head was a swirl of mush. Never before had I been prone to sleepwalking. Maybe I was just overwrought to the point of insanity – a very real possibility, but a terrifying one. Being with St. John again obviously hadn't remedied my mental state.

_If anything, it's worse._

A tear slid down my cheek, and I closed my eyes. I'd never had a nightmare like that before. Where my subconscious had picked up fodder to build a horrific beast like the one that had peeled out of the wall, or what put those terrible words in its mouth, I couldn't even imagine.

"Okay, well," St. John sounded more than irritated by then. "Maybe you can have quieter nightmares, okay? I'm trying to sleep here."

Swallowing a bitter knot in my throat, I turned my stare to the darkened window and didn't answer. I wasn't in the mood to deal with his lack of maturity.

"I'm going to shut off the light," he continued in the same careless tone. "It bothers me, and I'm not done sleeping."

I didn't feel like pointing out that he'd fallen asleep the night before while several lights in the room were on.

"Doesn't matter," I grumbled. "I'm not going to sleep anyway."

He grunted. "Suit yourself." The light switch clicked, and I heard him shifting under the blanket I'd draped over him to get comfortable. Alone in the darkness, I clasped my hands and braced them under my chin with a heavy sigh.

"You know," St. John muttered sleepily, "breakfast starts at six o'clock. In case you're hungry."

I raised an eyebrow, only mildly interested. "Thanks, but I don't have any money with me."

A snort came from St. John's side of the room. "It comes with the room," and I could almost hear him tack on a silent, _Stupid._

I craned around to look in his direction, though I could see nothing but a silhouetted lump on the shadowed bed. "You mean it doesn't cost anything?"

"Yup. All you can eat. Just take a key card and don't wake me up again."

Then I heard a yawn, and his breathing evened out. He was sleeping again.

With a little sigh, I glanced at the clock. It read 5:45. Rising, I paced to the window and parted the thick burgundy curtains, allowing a faint glow – barely strong enough to dispel the shadows – to fall inside the room. Standing in that thin ray of light, I stared out at the empty streets below, absently tracing the place where the gash from a dragon's teeth had once marked my forearm. The wound had left invisible scars, just like Angel's healing blood had erased the evidence of pain that still lingered.

A furrow dug into my forehead. It hurt too much to think about Angel.

The city was still and waiting in the final dark hours before morning. There was no moon, and the stars were so faint that I couldn't pick them out of the black void that was the sky. The vacant buildings looked as if they were sleeping, their windows blank and lifeless like dead eyes that couldn't see me. Parked cars were cast aside to litter abandoned parking lots and curbs, alone and forgotten. It was a lonely, dismal scene, illuminated only by a few tired yellow streetlights.

It reflected the ache in my heart – so much so that I could have wept out of pity for New York.

Then, slowly, the thoughts began to come. And they didn't surprise me – as if I'd been aware of those thoughts for a long time, but I'd simply been holding them at bay. Only a midnight encounter with a dragon had broken down those walls inside of me.

I fought to hold back the deluge before I drowned in reality.

_If only,_ I thought frantically. _If only the walls holding back St. John's memory were so easy to destroy. We have things we have to discuss. I need to know…_

I scrunched my eyebrows. Needed to know what?

_If things will work out between us._

My jaw tightened. _Oh yes, Violar, you're in fine shape to be contemplating a relationship right now. And with him, of all people. What are you doing?_

That harsh voice of reason, which had been silenced for so long, struck me painfully in the heart. My spirits sank even lower. I leaned forward until my forehead rested heavily against the cold window, and my breath fogged a frosted gray circle in the glass until I could no longer see outside.

My mind went back to our first night together – a night when we'd fallen into a wrinkle in time, where even a Narnian centaur who had allied herself with the X-Men could profess her love to an infamous, invincible criminal who had committed horrific acts of violence all over New York City. I'd been present to watch him in action. I'd seen him scorch innocent people and rob a Chinese restaurant. I'd had a glimpse of what he'd done and what he was capable of. That night, I'd had a thousand questions – all of which had been silenced by a soft, hesitant kiss and questioning, ice blue eyes.

A tear streaked through the circle of fog on the glass, and I bit back a sniffle – mindful of St. John's admonishment to stay quiet. I'd wanted answers to those questions. It wasn't fair… I wasn't going to get any answers, now.

My expression twisted into a soundless snarl of agony, and I shoved away from the window – barely remembering to grab a key card before I exited the room, closing the door behind me as softly as possible. I had to do something – anything but stand there with my thoughts to torment me in the deafening quiet.

I wasn't hungry, but breakfast was my only escape.

I retraced my steps to the elevator and pressed the button with the down arrow. I didn't have long to wait before an elevator car appeared. The doors slid open, and I swallowed hard before I stepped into it, feeling as if I'd willingly entered a death trap. After a brief study of the lighted buttons, I pressed the one that had "main floor" written beside it.

The doors closed, and my descent began. I folded my arms around myself and looked out over the empty, glowing blue pool, the waterfall, the plants with the elegant flowers…

I just wanted to cry.

The elevator glided to a halt, and when the doors opened, I stepped out. The magnificent lobby was empty, save for a dark-skinned man in a green uniform replacing trash bags and a slender, olive-skinned woman behind the front desk. Still rubbing my own arms – I was cold, which was unusual for me – I wondered if I ought to ask where to find this breakfast St. John spoke of. It occurred to me then, in a moment that sent a frown skidding across my features, that St. John might have been pulling a nasty prank on a Narnian centaur who wouldn't know any better.

Before I could consider either possibility, the delicious scent of sweet cinnamon wafted across my nose. Turning away from the elevator, I followed it. The aroma lured me off the plush lobby carpet and onto polished marble-tiled flooring, where counters against two walls were lined with various kinds of food – bread and cereal and donuts, at first glance – and drinks both hot and cold. The harsher scent of coffee mingled with the sweeter scent lingering in the air.

A lone counter that stood like an island with a low roof-shaped glass partition hovering over it was responsible for the scent. Steam rose gently from it, and when I stepped closer, I had to gulp: I found silver trays full of scrambled eggs, seasoned potatoes that had been cubed and baked, fresh pancakes, bacon strips and sausage links, and large cinnamon rolls oozing cinnamon and drizzled with frosting glaze.

A woman in a green uniform and a tan apron stood before a small refrigerator. She appeared to be restocking little containers of flavored yogurt.

"Excuse me… ma'am?" I asked hesitantly, stepping towards her. She turned to me with a ready smile as I wondered, "Do I simply… take a plate and just…" I waved helplessly at the steaming island.

"Of course! Help yourself," she encouraged. "I'll bring more out in a little while."

_More?_

Had I been my usual self, I might have leapt for joy at the prospect of having an incredible buffet all to myself, and I'd have hugged the woman for such generosity. As it was, I could barely whisper out a strangled, "Thank you," as I moved toward a stack of gleaming white plates and selected one.

Within minutes, I had accumulated a huge collection of food: A generous helping of eggs, six sausage links and eight strips of bacon, another generous helping of potatoes, one of the giant cinnamon rolls, a toasted blueberry bagel slathered thickly with cream cheese, four yogurts in assorted flavors ranging from peach to strawberry-banana, a maple donut bar, a handful of tiny orange muffins, and an English muffin topped with butter and blackberry jelly. My five drinks were equally varied: Coffee (doctored heavily with French vanilla cream, milk, and sugar), hot chocolate, mint tea, orange juice and cranberry juice.

I hardly knew where to start. But instead of feeling enthusiastic at the thought of tackling such a healthy breakfast, I felt daunted – as if the task would take too much strength to accomplish.

Nevertheless, I picked up a bagel and took my first bite. The woman in the green uniform – she wore a tag with the name Karen on it, I noticed – passed by my table, did a double take, and nearly tripped over her own shoes. Her stunned gaze locked on the precariously balanced mountain of food on my plate.

"Good heavens! Someone woke up hungry today!"

I glanced up at her bright smile, then sighed heavily, staring at the bite marks in my cream cheese. "Not as hungry as usual," I muttered.

The woman laughed, obviously considering my remark a joke, and she disappeared around the corner. My breakfast and I were left alone.

It didn't take me long to tuck away the wonderful fare, and even I wasn't entirely proof against the delicious warmth such a feast provided. I saved the cinnamon roll for last. Moodily I pulled at pieces of the treat with my plastic fork, and after I reduced it to crumbs, I picked up my coffee and reluctantly turned my attention to the multitude of troubles that made up my life.

_Where do I go from here?_

There were no answers. Or maybe I hated the answers so much that I refused to consider any of them.

I decided to go for a second round of breakfast. And then a third. And then a fourth. And then I lost count.

I ignored the shocked, wide-eyed glances from Karen and chose instead to think about nothing. While I was occupied with food, it worked. I tried all the cereals, drenched a crispy waffle in butter and syrup, and emptied a donut box. I mixed combinations of orange, cranberry and apple juices. I kept the four-slice toaster busy with a variety of bagels, English muffins and different kinds of breads.

But the dining area wasn't deserted for long. The elevator delivered a stream of hungry visitors to the buffet – a few businessmen quietly reading newspapers, at first, then a smattering of couples and families with small, crying children and finally a whole group of tall young men who, judging by their matching blue and white uniforms, muscular physiques and obvious camaraderie, belonged to some kind of sports team. I guessed baseball, most likely, but I was hardly an expert on the subject.

The more diners gathered, the more tension gripped the air. People stiffened and formed lines, as if concerned that a menu item or two might disappear before they had a chance to sample it. An unspoken competition started, particularly among the teenaged boys, to see who could eat the most. Karen was suddenly scurrying back and forth between the kitchen and the dining area, returning with fresh pans of food. A man looked peeved when the donuts ran out, and he turned his glare onto me – because I had two chocolate bars on my plate.

At some point after eight o'clock, I decided it wasn't worth fighting the crowds anymore. I stacked my cups – I'd accumulated over a dozen of them – and empty containers of jelly, butter, cream cheese, milk, and honey and dumped them all in the trash. I passed Karen as I departed.

"My compliments to the chef," I murmured quietly, hardly sparing a glance in her direction. "Please pass along my sincerest thanks for the fine meal."

Karen didn't answer. My Danger Sense indicated a stunned speechlessness that I wasn't the least bit inclined to explain away. I simply headed for the elevator, traveled to the third floor, walked the quiet hall, and slid my key through the reader. When the light flashed green, I softly turned the handle and slipped into the darkened room.

St. John was still sleeping.

Pleasantly satiated with food and drink, I selected one of the comfy chairs and sat down to wait. A centaur was accustomed to feeling continually hungry, but a full half hour went by before I began to wish I'd had the foresight to bring a couple extra blueberry muffins with me for a snack.

Then again, I didn't want to be responsible if Karen fainted.

Stormy gray light fell through the parted curtains. Once again, it reflected my mood so well that I felt sorry for the mournful sky. I leaned my head against the back of my chair and stared at the ceiling.

_What am I going to do?_

I balked so hard at the question that I knew, for certain, that I feared the answer. I rubbed my eyes, exhausted after a night of interrupted and troubled sleep. Wondering made my heart hurt and gave me a headache.

With a little groan, I grabbed my brown trench coat and covered myself with it, then dozed off – or tried to. I kept waking up to check on St. John, half afraid – irrationally – that the dragon from my nightmares would swoop down again to claim its prey.

A stirring from his bed brought me out of a deep sleep. I sighed and rubbed my eyes, then watched as St. John sat up. His ash blond hair had flopped messily in every direction, and his long lashes obscured his blue eyes.

I glanced at the clock and realized that I'd slept in the chair for over an hour.

"Good morning," I greeted him in a husky tone.

St. John grunted, bent over to look at the clock, muttered something unsavory and shoved himself off the mattress. Grumbling to himself, he disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door.

"My, we're friendly today," I sighed aloud.

I rose and put on my trench coat in preparation to leave. Actually, I wanted to be ready for anything. Aside from his surly demeanor, something told me that St. John Allerdyce was not habitually an early riser. I hardly knew what to expect from him at this hour. It was almost 10:30 – well after my usual wakeup time - and with rare exception, I generally expected to be finishing my morning routine by now. At precisely noon each day, I ate lunch.

St. John hadn't even eaten breakfast yet.

He took so long in the bathroom that I found myself pacing while I waited. Finally St. John showed up. Judging by the scowl on his face and the oppressive darkness in my Danger Sense, his mood hadn't improved one bit.

A flare of anger ignited in my temper. I tensed, preparing to tangle with him.

"Are you going to eat breakfast?" I asked calmly.

His scowl deepened. "Missed it. Breakfast ended at ten."

A little sympathy softened my irritation. "I'm sorry."

"Eh." He shrugged. "I'll just eat somewhere else."

"If I'd known, I might have tried to wake you up sooner."

He glared at me. "You woke me up in the first place, remember?"

I tightened my jaw so hard that the muscles in my cheeks ached. If he'd known _why_ I'd accidentally awakened him, that I'd been protecting him from a dragon, maybe he would have been a little more understanding.

Abrupt disappointment smothered my anger, and I looked away. I suddenly knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that St. John wouldn't care.

The knowledge hurt so much that I had to blink back the urge to cry. If St. John would have allowed it, I'd have done anything for him – anything.

A harsh sigh interrupted my muses. "Well, exciting as it is just standing here, I'm going to tear myself away from this staring contest and get going."

He turned his back on me and strode for the door. Without a second thought, I followed him.

"What are you going to do today?" I wondered quietly.

He rounded on me in the doorway – so quickly that I nearly ran into him. My startled eyes jolted up to his, and the fiery anger that shadowed the beautiful icy blue gaze ripped my heart to shreds.

"None of your damn business!" he snapped so venomously that I was knocked backwards, staring at him in wounded shock. "I don't know who you think you are, but you're not my mother. Stay out of my life."

I felt as if he'd kicked me.

He turned his back on me and exited the room before my hands flew to my face. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I lurched against the wall, suddenly paralyzed by deep sobs.

I drew a ragged breath… then another… then another. Forcing myself away from the wall, I wiped the tears from my cheeks, quivering all over.

_He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know._

I bit my lip and drew myself up, praying I wouldn't look nearly as upset as I felt. Bravely I walked down the hall on unsteady legs, and I kept track of St. John with my Danger Sense. He was waiting by the elevator. Silently I moved behind him, saying nothing and keeping my gaze carefully averted while I tried not to sniffle.

A tendril of curiosity penetrated the dark thunderclouds in my Danger Sense, but St. John didn't turn around. Someone must have been taking their time in exiting the elevator, because the car was in no hurry to arrive at the third floor. I could have cared less, though I sensed St. John – impatient, as always – felt quite differently.

"Where are you going today?" he asked gruffly, as if to make some kind of conversation between us.

An icy coldness settled in the pit of my stomach, and I swallowed the bitter knot in my throat. "Home," I replied quietly. "I'm going home."

The tendril of curiosity vanished, replaced by iron black hardness once more. The elevator doors opened at last, and we stepped into it without a word. I kept my back to the glowing blue pool and the magnificent waterfall. Aesthetic beauty held no appeal for me right then. I folded my arms across my chest and lowered my gaze as we descended to the ground floor.

The doors released us from the confined elevator, and St. John strode towards the front desk without a word to me. Feeling entirely abandoned and unwanted, I hovered in the glamorous lobby, telling myself that I didn't have to wait for him – yet waiting for him anyway. I'd made him promises, by the mane… promises I meant to keep, even if it killed me. And it probably would. With my arms folded tightly across my chest, I clenched my fists until the nails bit into my palms just to hold back the tears. My emotional state was deteriorating, fast. I was in danger of losing what little dignity I had left by breaking down in the middle of a posh Marriott hotel lobby.

St. John finished his business with the front desk and spun around, striding past me – straight for the rotating glass doors. My heart lurched with terror. My breathing shallowed out. I watched him go, knowing that I was about to lose him again, and it took all my self-control to hold back the scream rising inside of me.

_Don't leave me! Please, don't leave me…_

I bit my lip, hard. And in that final moment of desperation, I suddenly latched onto the last thing I could think of that would keep him here.

"I meant what I said," I gasped in a rush.

He stopped in his tracks. I closed my eyes briefly, struggling for a little composure. I couldn't let him see how badly he'd upset me…

Slowly St. John turned and glowered at me over his shoulder, and my gaze instantly dropped to his boots. The sight of those boots brought back too many painful memories, and I sent my glance skidding aside.

"And what would that be?" St. John asked sardonically.

"A-about your house." My nervous glance darted to his face, and I struggled to keep it there. "You… you don't have anywhere to stay."

"Well I'm not staying at the Institute," he growled.

"I know," I cried, my words nearly running over his. I trembled all over. "I just mean that… that… that I did want to… to help you find another place."

A snort answered my care and concern on his behalf. "Forget it. I'll have enough money to get something in a day or two."

Sheer horror must have reflected on my face. I felt the color drain from my cheeks and my eyes widened. "Uh… no, no. That's not… St. John," I stepped closer to him, desperate to make him understand. "I'll find you an apartment or a house or… whatever you like. And I'll pay for it. Every month."

That got through to him at last. He frowned in confusion and looked taken aback, then he stared at me suspiciously. "Why?"

I cautiously closed the distance between us until we were only a few feet apart, and I couldn't breathe. "Why… what?"

"Why would you pay for _my_ house?"

"Because… because…"

_Because I don't want you robbing a bank. Because I don't want you killing innocent people._

Anger flared like red fire in his blue eyes. "Are you trying to keep me out of trouble?"

"No!" I gasped, terrified into the lie. Had he read my mind? Was I that obvious? "I just… I promised," I prevaricated, staring at the floor between us. "I was there when your house burned down and I… I promised you… that I would take care of you."

I couldn't say more than that. Tears burned my eyes, and one more word would have reduced me to sobs. And I'd told him half the truth – Aslan knew I'd told him half the truth.

_Please believe me. Please…_

He sighed and shook his head. "Fine, whatever. But I don't need you or anyone else taking care of me. I don't know what your problem is, but you're starting to get on my nerves."

"I'm sorry," I whispered brokenly, not knowing what else to say. The floor blurred.

"I don't care. Just stay out of my way."

St. John brushed past me, leaving a cold and empty space where he'd stood a moment before. I closed my eyes and turned my head away as I listened to the soft whirr and gentle creak of the rotating glass doors. They turned like the hands of a clock, taking St. John away from me.

_No, wait!_

Abruptly I whirled and broke into a run, shoving the doors to make them move faster. Cold blasted me in the face as I broke into the gray February morning. I looked around the grand entrance to the Marriott, and my wild gaze fell on St. John, who was already striding down the sidewalk with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket.

"St. John!" I called after his retreating back.

He halted and slouched in the middle of the sidewalk, glancing back at me with ice blue eyes narrowed by obvious annoyance. "Now what?"

I thought madly. "So I'll… I'll see you tonight? Right here? Eight o'clock?"

His jaw worked, and the bridge of his nose crinkled. Then he turned his back and spoke as he walked away. "Don't be late."

He disappeared into the crowds on the sidewalk.

I stumbled backwards, gasping like a fish out of water as the tears began to run down my face. This wasn't happening. This wasn't the way things were supposed to be. I pressed shaking fingers to my cheek, feeling the hot tears run down my cold skin. A sob wrenched from my lungs as I turned away, stunned and bewildered and completely devastated.

It was over. I couldn't believe it was over.

Cold gripped my stomach as I moved slowly away from the Marriott and onto the sidewalk, headed in the opposite direction. I couldn't think. I could hardly breathe. Everything inside of me was swallowed up by a bottomless pit of agony. What more could I have done? I didn't have anything else to give. And that was my own fault.

After everything I'd been through to save St. John, I'd failed. Now I was back at square one – with nothing to show for my efforts. St. John's life hadn't been altered at all by my brief interference, but I… I'd been utterly destroyed.

For once in my life, I needed the general indifference of New York. No one gave a lonely centaur with a broken heart a second glance. I moved through the crowds without seeing the faces, feeling lost. I passed the basketball courts, where the lively shouts and the bouncing balls and the running feet were nothing more than background noise. I stared blankly at the Outback Steakhouse. The bizarre scene we'd caused the day before would fade from memory, eventually – like everything else that would be forgotten about us. At least the restaurant hadn't been robbed or burnt to ashes after our brief visit.

And then I was standing on the street corner.

Cold wind brushed through my hair as I stood there, watching groups of people cross the street, seeing the orange hand and the ice blue figure of a person walking alternate over the lighted signs. Someone shouted for a cab that didn't stop, then unleashed a blistering tirade packed full of ugly expletives. Cars streamed past the curb, the white headlights and red taillights standing out against the wintry gray morning. I looked over my shoulder, and there was the clock tower, staring dispassionately back at me.

I felt it then: A strange, otherworldly power at work in this place, stronger than gravity. It was a magic that gripped the unwary, that brought time to a halt, that gave the illusion of hope only to crush it again, that allowed glimpses of impossible dreams which turned out to be… impossible.

I shivered. How many victims had this street corner claimed before me? Or was it only me? If I could have built a monument to lost love, I would have chosen gray tombstone granite and carved out a huge winged centaur to stand on that corner forever and ever, until time itself broke the curse and caused the statue to crumble into dust.

I alone bore the burden of remembering that lost love. I bit my lip against more tears, as powerless to hold back that dark reality as I would have been to halt the traffic on the busy street. Cars rushed by me, as indifferent and cruel as time and love and fate.

It was too much…

Whirling suddenly, I broke into a run. I had to get out of there. The crowds parted to my left and right as I ran, faster and faster and faster, and I took an abrupt turn into a dilapidated alley. My skirt tangled about my legs. I couldn't smell the stench of garbage as I raced through it. Grief and anguish overwhelmed all my senses. I only knew that I ran, that I kept running, that I had to run faster…

I bolted through the gates to the mansion and stumbled onto the front lawn, panting and choking down tears. Pale and bewildered, I looked around. I didn't know what to do. My instincts had flared a long time ago, and they controlled my actions because my brain could not. I needed to run away. But I wanted… I wanted to stay at Xavier's, even though… I'd turned my back on them.

Narnia was safety and refuge. If I skirted the right side of the mansion and rushed into the woods, I could cross the portal threshold and be there in a few minutes. I could leave this world behind… I would never have to return.

The front door flew open. A blur of red and cream rushed out.

"Violar Wildfire, where have you been?" demanded a familiar feminine voice, half furious and half frantic. "You've been missing for two days – well, a day and a half, really – but I've been beside myself with worry! What in the world… you look like a ghost. Are you okay?"

It took an effort of will just to focus my eyes on Alisha Montrose. The last of my strength evaporated, and I weakly collapsed. Alisha gasped and caught me in her impossibly long arms.

"Violar!"

I couldn't make my legs work. I sank into the frosty grass, and Alisha gripped me tightly as I burst into tears and sobbed and sobbed until I could no longer breathe.


	33. To Keep A Promise

_I'm in… Xavier's Institute._

I had to keep reminding myself, or I would forget. My memory was that fragile.

Curled up on the blue couch in my living room, wrapped securely in a white quilt with a cup of mint tea steaming on the end table beside me, I stared ahead at nothing. If I thought I'd cried out all my anguish on the mansion's front lawn, I was sorely mistaken. Every few minutes, I'd burst into tears again and bury my face in the couch arm, sobbing.

_Why can't he remember me? Why does it have to be this way?_

What might have been. Hopeless thoughts – useless dreams. They were all I had left.

My lashes sealed shut with tears and I drew shaky breaths. Sobs trailed off into sniffles. Weakly I sat up and forced my eyes open enough to stare at the cup of dark green liquid beside me. Thin spirals of steam grew fainter as the tea cooled.

A small hand touched my shoulder. I sighed at the comforting gesture and turned my head in Alisha's direction as she sat down next to me.

"I did my best, Vi," she said, disappointment in her quiet tone. "There aren't many apartments or rental home owners who will take in a last-minute renter like that, same day. They want to go through some ridiculous bureaucratic process and check credit and all this other crud. Jean helped with the credit check and background stuff, but it's just… I don't know if we can do this or not."

I sent a tired glance at the clock on the wall. Already it was 5:15pm. In a little over two hours, I was scheduled to meet St. John in the Marriott lobby.

_How am I supposed to face those blue eyes now?_

I bit my lip – but it was no use. I burst into tears and covered my face with my hands.

"Violar! Vi, it's okay." I felt the couch dip as Alisha slid close to me, and she rubbed gently at my upper back. "We'll make this work somehow."

I shook my head and mashed my nose against my palm, smothering my sobs until they were forced to subside. "It isn't… that. I wish I hadn't offered to do this…"

"Oh, Vi, it was a sweet thing to do. I mean, if you hadn't put forth the offer, how would you feel?"

I rubbed my drenched eyes, sniffling. "I don't know."

Alisha hesitated. "I don't know either, but at least you kept St. John out of a little trouble. Who knows? What you did might have saved lives."

I sighed heavily. "Or maybe it doesn't matter," I muttered.

"Hey, you can't think like that, Vi. Look, I'll tell you what. If you want me to meet St. John tonight, I'll do it for you."

The offer touched my broken heart, and my hands came over my face to stifle a fresh surge of tears. Alisha was… too kind. But I couldn't let her do it. I'd risked her life once already where St. John was concerned, and Aslan help me, I wouldn't do it again.

"No… no. He knows me. He's expecting me. I'll go."

A wave of sympathy washed over my Danger Sense. Alisha rubbed the space between my shoulder blades and said nothing.

"Alisha…" I made an effort to look up at her, though it was hard to deliberately face her when I knew I looked as miserable as I felt. "I'm sorry… so sorry I worried you. I didn't even think of calling…"

That was as far as I got before tears overwhelmed me, and I turned toward the couch arm under a crushing wave of sobs. As if I hadn't made mistakes enough, I'd forgotten all about Alisha's generosity. She'd stuck by me through that week of darkness after St. John's death, and never once had it entered my mind that my unexplained and unannounced disappearance from Xavier's would cause people who cared about me to fret. Guilt and remorse made two more wounds for my weary soul to carry.

"Oh, Violar," soothed Alisha, which made me cry harder. "Now… if it'd been me in your shoes, and I'd experienced an impossible miracle and found St. John alive again, I'd probably have forgotten everything too. Please don't give it another thought. I forgive you. I know I'm acting like an overprotective parent, and you're the one who's three times older than me, and you're not even _from _this world, but I… I can't help it. You've been such a good friend and, and…"

Her voice cracked, and I heard a choked sob. Suddenly her arms came around my shaking body, and she leaned into my side, pressing her face to my shoulder and weeping. A fierce shudder wracked my body, and the intense pain inside of me multiplied a hundred times to know that Alisha was this upset on my behalf.

Shakily I pushed myself off the couch arm, turned towards the gentle redheaded girl, and wearily embraced her. We cried together for a long time.

"I'm sorry," I whispered presently. "I've tried… so hard… to do the right things, but I ended up doing the wrong things instead. I love this place…" A violent sniffle interrupted me. "I love these people… You're my family. You're like a sister, Alisha… and I… just severed ties without a… second thought…" Such anguish seared through me that I couldn't breathe. More tears spilled down my cheeks. "I'm not… a good… friend…"

"Nonsense," Alisha cut me off in a harsh whisper, but it was too late. I was lost in powerful throes of sorrow that I couldn't hold back. I had no strength to fight it. Even if I had, the agony formed such an unbearably heavy burden that mortal strength wasn't enough to lift it.

"Violar, you didn't abandon us," Alisha went on. "You came back. I'm so grateful you came back. Don't think about it anymore, okay? Everything's…" She hesitated and drew a breath. "Everything's going to be alright, Violar."

I didn't believe that. I'm not sure Alisha believed it, either. But for Alisha's sake, I nodded against her shoulder and slowly pulled away, swallowing down the endless well of tears. I dared not answer; I didn't trust my voice right then.

Alisha wiped her eyes. "Okay. Why don't we… what am I thinking? You're a centaur, and you're probably hungry. Would you like to watch some television while I fix a snack for us? Or, well, how about some music?"

Bless her heart. Alisha was trying with all her might to make something, _anything,_ better – even if she had to resort to distractions. Television and music held no interest for me at that moment, but I couldn't scorn her efforts.

"Music… might be nice," I conceded quietly.

She smiled, an expression that lit up her shiny green eyes. "Okay. Do you like Coldplay?"

I frowned, confused. "Winter music?" I hazarded a guess.

Alisha's sudden merry laughter was a music all its own. "No! Coldplay, winter music – oh, Violar, good one. No, it's not winter music, really. They're an alternative rock group. They're… well, you know me. I like lots of music. Coldplay's just one band I have an appreciation for."

"Sure," I decided. I had no preferences, anyway.

Alisha bounded off the couch and darted beyond my line of sight. I picked up the mug of lukewarm tea and forced my trembling hands to steady while I took a little sip, then another, then another. It was warm – and I desperately needed warmth inside of me. When a sniffle threatened to drown me in the middle of another gulp, I set down the cup and curled deeper into my quilt.

Alisha reappeared with a CD in hand, and she sent a bright smile at me while she pressed buttons on the CD player next to the television. It dawned on me that Alisha had even set up my own apartment in the mansion with a CD player, and a knot lodged in my throat at the fresh reminder of her thoughtfulness.

"There we go," she announced, adjusting the volume to a comfortable level as the first strains of music began to play. New York music was quicker in tempo than I was accustomed to – and busier, and louder, and far more complex. Sometimes I missed the simplicity of Narnia. But, all things considered, Coldplay seemed alright.

Alisha removed the paper cover from the clear CD case and handed it to me. "Knowing how much you like lyrics, you may be interested to read the dust jacket," she said, smiling. "Just be warned that it's in little teeny type, like they printed it for ants to read."

I huffed and nodded. "Thanks."

"No problem. Okay, I'm off to the kitchen to make some food. Any special requests?"

Wearily, I shook my head. "Doesn't matter."

"Okay, but I hope you don't regret this," she riposted with a sly grin.

I made a noise in my throat that was supposed to suffice for halfhearted amusement, though I didn't feel the least bit like sharing a joke. Alisha went into the kitchen, and I was left alone.

I turned the glossy paper over in my hands. _Prospekt's March_ was scrawled across the front in messy white letters, as if someone had painted the words without first practicing any form of true penmanship. Worse yet, the words were splashed irreverently over an old-fashioned painting of a battle. The picture itself looked faded, the colors seemed dulled by time; and the knights portrayed by the artist's brush had very little expression. If it weren't for the weapons they held, the opposing soldiers might have been mistaken for comrades-in-arms. A few men lay on the ground, supposedly dead or dying, but the lack of emotion on their faces made the otherwise grave scene seem strangely unreal.

In the center of the painting, a golden knight wielding a battle axe protected a small, dark-haired girl. Except for the way the girl clung to the golden knight and stared at the danger all around her, one might have thought – from the serene look on her face – that she was merely out for an afternoon stroll, curious and intrigued by her surroundings.

The almost harp-like percussion in the first song captured my attention. Flipping open the little booklet, I discovered that the song was called _Life in Technicolor II._ Before I could wonder too much about this song's predecessor, the lead singer joined the instrumentation. The words were unclear, but the phrase "wild wind blowing" piqued a little of my curiosity. My gaze drifted to the lyrics.

_There's a wild wind blowing,_

_Down the corner of my street,_

_Every night there the headlights are glowing._

_There's a cold war coming,_

_On the radio I heard,_

_Baby, it's a violent world._

_Oh, love, don't let me go,_

_Won't you take me where the streetlights glow?_

_I could hear it coming,_

_I could hear the sirens sound,_

_Now my feet won't touch the ground._

I squeezed my eyes shut. In my mind, I saw another time, another place, where sirens had split the nighttime quiet. I galloped down the dark city street in my true centaur form, aware of the wild wind and the distant headlights and wailing sirens and a powerful fury that warred with cold fear. I was not only a palomino creature who stirred hatred and other strong emotions from the people of New York, but I was running from the law after having inadvertently participated in a robbery. And I'd gotten into a fight with a handful of cooks and waiters who'd had every right to be angry with me. At that moment, I'd known I couldn't come back to the mansion and implicate the people I loved in a robbery. In one horrible instant, I'd lost everything I held dear: Family, my sense of honor and duty and right and wrong – even my very identity as one of the X-Men. I couldn't, in good conscience, place myself among their ranks anymore. Not when I'd crossed to the other side of the line.

And I'd done it all because I didn't want to let go of St. John – or to feel him let go of me. Had I really tried to do what was right? I'd told myself I had. Were the things I'd chosen to believe in that night all based on a lie? Were the things I'd fought for even worth fighting for?

_Time came a-creepin'_

_Oh and time's a loaded gun,_

_Every road is a ray of light,_

_It goes on—_

_Time only can lead you on;_

_Still, it's such a beautiful night._

_Oh, love, don't let me go,_

_Won't you take me where the streetlights glow?_

_I could hear it coming_

_Like a serenade of sound,_

_Now my feet won't touch the ground._

_Gravity release me,_

_And don't ever hold me down;_

_Now my feet won't touch the ground._

By the time Alisha returned, I felt pale and drawn. "Please shut it off," I whispered.

"Okay." Alisha set two plates on the coffee table and moved to the CD player. She pressed a button, and mercifully the music vanished into silence.

I swallowed hard and nodded my gratitude, then looked at the plates. It was easy to tell which plate was mine: One had a small sandwich neatly cut into four squares, but the other boasted a giant roast beef sandwich on thick orange-tinted bread sprinkled with herbs and spices. Half the plate was piled with potato chips, and two wrapped Snickers bars hugged the rim on the sandwich's other side.

My eyes flooded with tears. That worried Alisha.

"Did you want something else?" she asked in concern. "I can always make—"

I shook my head, cutting her off, but I couldn't say a word. Sniffling, I picked up the plate and shakily munched down a chip. Then I looked up at Alisha and stared at her through my tears, trying to thank her in the only way I could – unable to muster even a hint of a smile.

Her features relaxed. She understood.

"Okay, so," she remarked, as if to fill the depressing atmosphere with some kind of conversation. She took a seat next to me. "I have to go shopping again tomorrow. That refrigerator is too small, really, and it's hard to keep filled up. So if you have any requests or ideas or anything, you should—"

A ringing from the kitchen cut her off. She set her plate on the coffee table with a regretful sigh and a soft chuckle.

"Fine timing, huh? I'll be right back." She left the room.

I picked through my chips and nibbled down little bites of sandwich. My stomach grumbled and growled, as usual, but I wasn't hungry. Or, more accurately, I didn't want to eat. I was contemplating whether or not to try a Snickers bar when Alisha stepped up to the couch again, smiling with the true joy of a gift-giver.

"I got a house," she announced warmly. "It's a rental on the edge of town. He said… the guy said St. John can move in tonight, if he wants to."

I caught my breath, more numb than shocked. I glanced at the clock: Just after six o'clock.

All of a sudden, what little energy I had left drained out of me. The news should have been heartening, but instead it had the opposite effect. And I didn't know why. Wearily I set the plate on the coffee table and sat back with a deep sigh.

_So, it's really going to happen. I kept my promise… and now I have to meet with St. John again._

A look of understanding softened Alisha's cream-complexioned face. "You get some sleep, Vi," she encouraged gently. "I'll wake you up when it's time to go."

The offer was too tempting, and I had no strength to resist. With a little nod, I rolled towards the back of the couch and immediately fell into a dark void of pure, blessed nothingness.

I slept hard until Alisha shook me awake. I groaned and squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to surface into the painful reality that awaited me.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Vi," Alisha whispered. "I waited until the very last minute. It's time to go."


	34. Where Streetlights Glow

"Are you sure you want to do this, Violar?"

Shivering, I tore my glazed stare from the road ahead and focused on Alisha, who gripped the steering wheel and looked at me with worried green eyes. I almost regretted allowing her to drive me to the Marriott, now. The closed, artificially heated interior of her car aggravated my claustrophobia.

All my instincts seemed closer to the surface, ready to flare at the first sign of trouble. They'd been hypersensitive since the moment I'd awakened on the roof of a building with Angel hovering over me.

I bit my lip. "I have to," I answered a little weakly.

_Breathe, Violar. In, out, in, out._

I had to focus. If I didn't, the danger of suffocation was very real. The stifling car heater didn't help to ease my discomfort, either.

"I can pick you up after you hand him the key," Alisha offered.

I just shook my head. "The house isn't too far from the hotel. I'll… I'll walk him over."

Alisha gave a harsh sigh. "Violar—"

"I won't stay there," I interrupted. The last thing I wanted was a lecture, even if Alisha did have a valid point. I closed my eyes and clenched my clammy hands into fists. "I made a promise, and I'm going to keep it. I'll be at Xavier's by midnight. No later."

With a flick of her fingers, Alisha activated the blinker and turned her car onto another street. She chewed her lip and glanced sideways at me. Without looking at her, I knew she wasn't happy. But my Danger Sense told me that she was already conceding.

"You sure you want to walk all that way?" she asked. "It's a lot of miles to walk in the dark, all by yourself."

The deep furrows in my brow softened – the closest I'd come to a real smile since returning to the mansion that morning. "I'm from Narnia, Alisha. We're accustomed to traveling long distances on foot… or, in my case, on hoof. And we… I mean I… I'm a warrior. I'll be fine."

Alisha left it at that. But in the silence, my thoughts refused to drop the matter. Physically I'd be fine. My heart was another story.

By the time I sighted the red letters that adorned the side of the tall hotel building, my stomach had hardened into a ball of ice. My courage and I both quivered in the passenger seat of Alisha's car. Every turn of the wheels brought me closer to the place where I would meet St. John again.

The prospect terrified me far worse than anything I'd ever faced – worse than nightmare dragons that tore out of hotel walls or a mutant who could kill me with the deadly flames dancing in his powerful hands. I'd heard a song once on the radio, called _Nothing Hurts Like Love_. At the time, listening to it hurt when I thought of Angel. But right then, the song took on a whole new meaning.

I'd never had to say goodbye to Angel.

I hoped Alisha wouldn't notice how my breathing shallowed out and increased in tempo, and I prayed she wouldn't hear the pounding of my skittish heart. I flattened my palms and smoothed my skirt, wanting to berate myself for feeling so cowardly. A Narnian warrior centaur, indeed!

But I couldn't even shame myself into feeling anything but cold dread.

Alisha pulled into a parking space, and the car stopped. She looked at me again, silently imploring me to change my mind.

I bit my lip. "The key," I said with a quiet determination I didn't feel, holding out my hand.

Alisha's expression tensed, and she quickly turned away and swallowed hard as if she were trying not to cry. She reached into a compartment on the dashboard and withdrew a yellow envelope containing a key. I took it and reread the address of my destination, which was scrawled across the outside of the envelope along with a crudely drawn line map. Street names were scribbled next to the lines.

"Call me if you need anything," Alisha rasped. "My number's on the envelope."

I nodded, forcing short words through the constriction in my throat. "I will. Thanks."

Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the door handle, pushed it open, and stepped out. The cold air was a welcome relief after the suffocating warmth of the heated car, and I drew a lungful of it to ease my instinctive impulses. It helped, a little.

I glanced sideways at Alisha, who had her lower lip clamped firmly between her teeth. She looked scared and upset. Her teary green eyes glistened like emeralds in the darkness.

And it was all my fault.

I inhaled shakily. "Goodbye," I whispered, slamming the door shut. I turned and walked straight toward the hotel lobby. I didn't dare look back.

I stepped into the rotating glass doors and let them roll around slowly until they opened up on the other side, and I moved a short distance into the lobby. The Marriott looked exactly the same as it had the night before, but the glitz and glamour was lost on me the second time around – not because I had already tired of it, but because it was too bright and untouchable and impersonal. And because it brought back painful memories and reminded me of what was still to come.

Crushing the envelope between my hands, I nervously looked around. There was no sign of St. John. The clock on the wall behind the front desk read eight o'clock exactly.

There was nothing to do but wait – and dread. I paced the lobby, then wandered into the cozy little alcove with the earth-toned furniture and the perpetually-burning fire. I studied the three bronze statues on the mantel: The standing horse, the bugling elk, and the two cherubs who held a clock between them as if they were the appointed Guardians of Time. I studied their blank faces, searching for some hint of malice lurking in their youthful expressions.

Time had not been kind to me.

Biting my lip, I turned away and paced the length of the lobby, my black boots clopping like hooves on the polished marble floor. My skirt swished against my legs with every deliberate step. I smoothed the wrinkles from the yellow envelope and gazed at the map until the design was permanently burned into my memory. The hands on the wall clock moved to show 8:15. One of the women behind the front desk offered me a questioning glance, but I merely gave her a dismissive nod and continued pacing.

_I'm not late. Where is he?_

Growing impatient, I abruptly broke my pacing route and strode into the rotating glass doors. They deposited me on the sidewalk that ran along the fancy entrance to the Marriott. I glanced at the parking space and saw that Alisha's car was gone.

_Click. Click._

My heart leapt into my throat. Stiffly, I turned to find a familiar silhouette emerging from the shadows. Tiny flames flickered into view and vanished with each click of the lighter strapped to his wrist.

"St. John," I managed shakily, hating the way my voice quivered. I tried to smile.

The scowl etched into his forehead lessened its dark grip on his expression. The lighter stopped clicking.

"Violar," he returned quietly.

Desperate to hide how terrified I was, I opted for a lighthearted attack. "You told _me_ not to be late."

He shrugged that off. "Thanks for coming."

I blinked, startled – then confused. I stared at him. Was I really talking to the same St. John who'd wanted me out of his life this morning?

"Uh… of course. You're welcome."

An awkward silence settled between us. I swallowed hard, then looked down at the yellow envelope.

"So… I found a place. It's a rental house a couple miles down the road, but we can take a shortcut. Shall we go?"

A new expression passed over his face like a sick grimace, but my Danger Sense interpreted it without any trouble: Guilt and remorse, followed by deep shame. Sympathy tugged my heart as I wondered at the cause of it.

St. John lowered his head and attempted a careless shrug. "Sure. Lead the way."

For the first time since I'd met St. John, I walked down the sidewalk ahead of him instead of the other way around. But I didn't let him fall more than a step behind, choosing instead to keep him close to my side. I maintained enough distance between us that he wouldn't easily catch any expressions from me. There were so many things I didn't want him to know.

"So, how was your day?" I wondered conversationally after we'd walked an entire block in uncomfortable silence.

I glanced back in time to see a muscle in his jaw clench.

"Fine," he clipped, glowering at the empty street next to the sidewalk. "Busy." His nose crinkled in disgust for only an instant, and I suddenly knew that St. John had done something so terrible that he was ashamed to speak of it. "Yours?"

I didn't want to tell him that I'd spent my day in tears.

"Fine," I replied quietly. "Busy."

We said nothing more.

I ignored the depressing and faintly dangerous atmosphere along that graffiti-strewn side of town and led St. John up a shallow, weed-choked hill, over the railroad tracks, and down another sidewalk that ran beside parking lots surrounded by chain-link fences. It struck me that the buildings seemed too old and worn for such protective measures, but I didn't dwell on the matter because I really didn't care.

We cut across the parking lot of a dark supermarket which had closed for the evening. A few broken-down cars remained, and I could feel eyes on us from shadowed corners. The streetlights were fainter, but they cast their weary yellow glow on us as I led St. John down one more street and took a left.

There it was, rising before us like a haunted house. Age showed in the tired, sagging roofline and the cracked timbers of its siding, but all things considered, it wasn't too bad.

Or maybe my standards had been lowered.

"Reminds me of your old house," I ventured, breaking the silence between us. I glanced over my shoulder at St. John, who studied the house closely. "Do you like it?"

He gave a short nod. "Yeah. Can we go in?"

Upturning the envelope, I dumped the key into my palm and handed it to St. John. He took it without ceremony, climbed the stone steps to the creaky porch, and unlocked the door. With his usual lack of courteous manners, St. John entered the house first and turned on the light.

At least he hadn't slammed the door in my face. After the things he'd said to me that morning, I'd half expected it. Taking a deep breath, I stepped over the threshold and stood in the entryway, looking around.

The house smelled faintly musty, and the worn beige carpets bore a few stains that I could see even in the dim light, but it was relatively clean and unfurnished.

St. John swept a gaze from wall to wall, his back turned to me.

"How is it?" I asked.

He spun around with a careless shrug. "It's a house," he said dryly, avoiding my eyes. "It has a roof. Can't complain."

Impulsively I stepped forward. "Don't give up on the place so easily," I encouraged with a slight smile. "Let me show you something amazing. This way."

Curiosity ignited in his blue eyes as I moved past him and headed for the kitchen. He trailed after me, and when I reached the kitchen sink, I actually smiled at him.

"Watch this." With a gentle flourish, I turned on the faucet.

The indoor waterfall cracked through St. John's indifferent mask at last, and his face transformed into something softer – something gentler. He chuckled and shook his head, but it was good to see him smile.

Until I saw the sadness that tainted his smile. I bit my lip. After a moment I shut off the water, my heart heavier than before.

It was time.

"So, it's all yours, St. John. I'll pay rent and utilities every month. And I'll… I'll find a way to send you something for furniture. Sleeping on the floor gets old, unless you're… well… like me."

St. John scowled at the linoleum. "You don't have to do that."

"I want to," I answered quickly. "It's nothing. Really."

I wouldn't take no for an answer. My imagination had already conjured a morbid vision of St. John robbing a furniture store.

"Well… whatever. Thanks."

I was surprised. At least St. John had sense enough not to argue with me. My heart seized up as I nodded. "You're welcome."

All of a sudden, I had to leave. The urge to cry pressed in on me with increasing urgency. I rolled the empty envelope between my hands and stepped past St. John, moving toward the living room.

"I'd better get going," I said as I moved toward the door. "It's getting late, and I don't want to keep you up."

I sensed him following me. "You're not keeping me up."

I paused in the entryway and turned, my shoulders tense. I didn't meet his gaze, and he made no attempt to meet mine.

"Oh. That's good to know." I swept an anxious hand through my dark hair as my chest tightened. "I, er… I promised a friend that I'd… have dinner with her this evening. I don't want to be late."

He nodded and pursed his lips in disappointment, which he quickly tried to conceal as he stepped back. "Um, yeah. Sure thing. Well, this is, um…" His gaze shifted to the ceiling. "It's a nice place. Thanks."

I swallowed hard. "Don't mention it."

The pain in my chest expanded, and I felt tears well in my eyes. Quickly I turned my back and reached for the door handle. "Well, goodnight."

"Violar, wait."

I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lip hard to hold back the threatening flood of tears.

_I'm not going to cry… I'm not going to cry…_

Without turning around, I slowly opened my eyes and cleared my throat. "Yes?"

I heard St. John shift uncomfortably and take a deep breath. "Look, I just wanted to say that, um… the things I said this morning… I didn't really mean them."

I fought to breathe normally and stared at the dark wooden door. Not now, maybe, but he'd meant every word at the time. My Danger Sense had rarely been host to so much hatred – and never before from someone I'd tried to help.

Cautiously I released my lower lip. "It's alright." _I'll get over it, eventually. I hope._

My composure cracked. I reached for the doorknob again before his voice stopped me. There was a note of urgency there that rooted me in place.

"Will I see you again?"

Agony drove into my heart, and I dissolved into tears. I couldn't hold them back anymore. My fingers trembled against the doorknob. He wanted to see me again, after everything he'd put me through. And I… I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it.

I felt like a miserable, heartless, unfeeling creature. But even though St. John hadn't told me, I knew what he'd done today: There had been a crime, and fire, and innocents endangered – if not badly injured or killed. He'd been upset with himself, and… he'd been uncomfortable around me because he knew I didn't approve. But he couldn't control his powers any more than he could rein in his awful temper or the burning rage inside of him.

That was what I had to look forward to – every single day. Unless I could somehow put a stop to it. And I was too weak to try.

Tears surged down my cheeks, and my lungs convulsed in silent sobs. The door in front of me blurred. But I fought to sound normal, at least.

"No."

The single, truthful answer was spoken very quietly. With what I hoped was casual slowness, I lifted a hand to brush away the tears. And I bit my lip again.

St. John's disappointment would have been palpable even without a Danger Sense, which I unfortunately possessed. It multiplied my misery. What little strength of will I had left was channeled into this one final moment, and I would not – could not – back down.

St. John sighed behind me, as if resigned. "Yeah, okay. Well… thanks."

I could only nod as my fingers closed around the doorknob, twisted and pulled, and released me into the New York night. Blindly I stumbled down the steps and made it as far as the street corner before the dam burst.

_What have I done?_

My hands closed around the freezing metal pole of a stop sign, and I hugged it close as wracking sobs tore from my chest. Winter wind rustled through dead leaves and tugged at my skirt, and I buried my face against my forearms and wept until my sleeves were drenched in bitter saltwater.

I'd finished it. It was over. And, at the last, I'd hurt St. John. I'd confirmed everything he'd said to me before he'd lost his memory: That he wasn't a person someone could love.

It was a long time before I found the courage to let go of the stop sign. Alone on a sidewalk, bathed in faint pools of yellow light, I glanced back at the rental house one more time. I stood in the cold for over an hour until the last light in an upper window switched off.

_I'll always love you, St. John._

That was all I had to offer – a feeble thought. One feeble, worthless thought. Neither the thought, nor my love, would be enough to change St. John's life.

I turned away with an empty, heavy heart and pointed my boot toes in the direction of Xavier's Institute. The lyrics to Coldplay's song followed me on the long journey home.

_There's a wild wind blowing_

_Down the corner of my street,_

_Every night there the headlights are glowing._

_There's a cold war coming,_

_On the radio I heard,_

_Baby, it's a violent world._

_Oh, love, don't let me go,_

_Won't you take me where the streetlights glow?_

_I could hear it coming,_

_I could hear the sirens sound,_

_Now my feet won't touch the ground._

_Time came a-creepin'_

_Oh and time's a loaded gun,_

_Every road is a ray of light,_

_It goes on—_

_Time only can lead you on;_

_Still, it's such a beautiful night._

_Oh, love, don't let me go,_

_Won't you take me where the streetlights glow?_

_I could hear it coming_

_Like a serenade of sound,_

_Now my feet won't touch the ground._

_Gravity release me,_

_And don't ever hold me down;_

_Now my feet won't touch the ground._


	35. Another Wrinkle in Time

"_In other news around the area, a fire at the warehouse on the corner of Merritt Parkway and Main Street has been contained after hours of firefighting. The blaze started last night at around 1am, according to eyewitness reports. Emergency vehicles responded in time to protect the surrounding buildings from the fire. The warehouse was destroyed and one man, a night watchman on duty, was killed. He leaves behind a wife and two young children._

"_Authorities are baffled as to what caused the fire, but early reports place possible blame on faulty electrical wiring. The investigation is continuing."_

An icy sick feeling gripped my stomach. I sat on the couch, one clammy hand on the remote, but I couldn't bring myself to shut off the television.

_This is all my fault._

The authorities knew as well as I did that the warehouse fire wasn't caused by faulty wiring. It was the latest in an epidemic of fires around the area – car fires, building fires, house fires. An entire apartment complex had gone up in flames three nights ago, leaving dozens of people homeless and killing four, including a baby girl.

In the three weeks since I'd left St. John in his new house, he'd gone on a rampage. Aside from causing millions of dollars in fire damage, at least eleven people had died and twenty-six more had been hospitalized with everything from smoke inhalation to third-degree burns.

Now I added the life of the night watchman to my guilty conscience.

After delivering that grave news with little expression on her face, the blonde anchorwoman brightened.

"_It's certainly been an eventful evening in sports, hasn't it, George?"_

The camera pulled back to reveal a smiling dark-haired man in a gray suit and blue tie sitting next to the woman at the news desk.

"_That it has, Julianne. No one gave the Knights much chance against the undefeated Boulevardiers, but tonight belonged to the underdogs. For highlights, we go down to—"_

I hit the button. The smiling anchorman vanished.

The heavy silence of the room stung my senses like an audible buzz. I rolled onto my back and stared dully at the ceiling, too miserable for words.

Three weeks had gone by. And every minute had been an eternity of torment. Almost every night, there had been a mention of some fiery catastrophe during the first fifteen-minute segment of the evening news program. No matter how much Alisha begged and pleaded with me to leave the television off, I had to know the truth.

And the truth was killing me, slowly. A swift death would have been more merciful than this dark existence.

_Twelve people. By the mane._

At least I'd ceased to cry. For the first week, I'd sobbed inconsolably. Now I was an empty shell, too tired and weak and numb for tears. I lay on the couch, my glazed vision lost in space, waiting – for nothing.

Time was not my friend. It marched on without me, carrying everyone – including St. John – into the future. But it left me far behind. Slowly I began to realize that, while St. John had slipped beyond the wrinkle in time that had captured us both the night we kissed, I remained a prisoner of that moment.

Perhaps I would never escape.

A swath of green moved into my line of vision. I gasped, startled out of my reverie, and stared in wide-eyed fright at Alisha.

"Alisha," I whimpered, shaking all over.

She knelt down beside me, her gentle hand on my arm. "I'm sorry, Vi. I didn't mean to scare you."

Pale and quivering, I gave my head a little shake and closed my eyes. "Not your fault. I… I didn't hear the door."

The admission brought a fresh swell of tears to the surface. I turned my face towards the back of the couch, sniffling. Even my sharp senses had failed me – along with my short-term memory, my energy, my appetite, and my will to live.

Delicate fingers pressed into my cheek. "You're freezing cold, Violar," she chided softly. "It's winter, and you can't expect to stay warm if you don't eat enough and dress in that bathrobe."

Even if it weren't true, I couldn't argue with Alisha. The next thing I knew, the soft white quilt draped over me. Sniffing, I cuddled into it with my eyes closed.

"Sorry," I whispered.

Alisha remained quiet. Her fingers stroked through my hair in a soothing rhythm, taking the edge off my pain and sharpening it at the same time. I knew her silence meant that something was on her mind. Eventually she'd tell me what it was. I had only to be patient.

Sure enough, Alisha presently spoke. "I wrote something for you, Vi. It's not very cheerful," she added sheepishly. She swallowed hard. "But I… I wanted to give you something. Will you read it?"

I sniffed, then turned my head until I could see her. "Please read it to me," I whispered. It hurt my head to read, and if I burst into tears, I wouldn't be able to see the words.

Alisha nodded. A paper rustled in her hands, and she began.

_It's hard to keep a smile on your face _

_when you're hurting inside._

_It's hard to build up others_

_when all you want to do is break down yourself._

_It's hard to nurse a wounded heart_

_when it's been shattered._

_It's hard to say, "I'm fine," _

_when you know you're not._

_It hurts when people you thought would be there for you, leave you alone – _

_clueless to your pain._

_It's hard when you say, "I'm fine," and no one tries to look past it; _

_when no one tries to look you in the eyes and say: "No, you're not okay."_

_Knives tear at your heart,_

_Words break the skin;_

_Sarcasm is a fist,_

_Your friend's laughter is agony to your ears._

_You try to keep control,_

_Try to work through it,_

_Hoping,_

_Praying,_

_That someone will see the burden you are carrying_

_And have the courage to ask to bear it with you._

_You keep quiet so long that you begin to think you're okay._

_You feel nothing,_

_Your spirit is so dead you barely remember what it means to function_

_ properly._

_Laughter is the only balm for your hurt_

_For a few hours you feel alive._

_But then you go home,_

_Reality comes crashing down._

I stared at her, shaken to the core and caught in the painful grip of tears. Somehow Alisha had taken everything I was, and everything I was suffering, and she turned it inside out and created poetry with it. Heartbreaking poetry.

I lowered my gaze. I hadn't done anything to deserve Alisha's devoted care and concern on my behalf. And I had no way to compensate her.

I turned away as fierce sobs seized me, and I buried my face in the quilt. Gentle arms came around me, and I suddenly whirled and gripped Alisha with whatever strength I had left, crying against her shoulder.

"I'm sorry… if I made things worse," came Alisha's choked whisper.

I shook my head and drew away, struggling to order my scattered thoughts. "You wanted to let me know that… you understand what I'm going through."

I looked up at her through misty eyes, and she nodded.

My chin trembled. "I have… so often… wished that you didn't have to suffer this way. There's nothing to be done for me—"

"Don't say that!" pleaded Alisha, her shiny green eyes full of worry. "There has to be _something._ I'll find it… I have to find it…"

I squeezed her shoulder, swallowing a knot in my throat. "Please… please don't argue," I urged wearily. "There are some wounds that… no one can heal. These are mine to bear alone." Tears coursed down my cheeks. "Even if… Angel himself came in here and… said the things I want more than anything to hear…"

Alisha's eyes blinked wide. Her jaw dropped. "What?"

It dawned on me that I'd said too much. I gulped and bit my lip. "It's… never mind. I'm just upset. I said things to him that I shouldn't have."

I glanced at Alisha and grimaced. Her awed expression remained unchanged, and I could see revelations unfolding behind her eyes.

"You love Angel?" she breathed.

I dropped my head to the couch arm and looked away with a tired sigh. "I love St. John," I replied quietly.

"You didn't answer the question."

I hesitated. "It doesn't matter."

"Oh yes it does." Alisha's voice was suddenly strong and determined as she sat beside me. "It matters very much. Tell me what's going on."

I bit my lip over a sniffle. "I… I can't. Alisha, leave this alone, I implore you."

Gentle fingers caught my chin and turned my face towards her, and I was forced to meet her intense emerald stare. "Not when I think I've found a way to help you," she said.

Horror blazed through me. The tears abruptly stopped as I pushed myself up.

"Alisha," I cried, gripping her shoulder. "Alisha, please. Don't do anything. I beg you not to do anything."

Her eyebrows arched. "Why not?"

"Because!" I was more than a little frightened. I'd seen what the students were capable of when they chose to play matchmaker – or Cupid, they called it in New York – between crushes, often on behalf of just one person. Alisha was a teenager. And she'd sworn only moments before to do anything to help me.

My heart leapt into my throat. If Angel's girlfriend, Thea, found out… there was no telling what might happen to Angel.

"Not this," I pleaded. "You can't… do this. He…" I bit my lip and sagged backwards. I looked up at the ceiling. I'd never given voice to the awful truth, but now I didn't have a choice. "He doesn't love me."

"Oh, no," Alisha murmured over my sniffle. "But you really care about him?"

I bit my lip hard and scowled at the floor, then nodded. And burst into tears.

"It doesn't matter," I stubbornly insisted, rubbing my eyes.

"It does matter, Violar. When… when did he… say he didn't love you?"

I choked. "Alisha, please. I don't…" I breathed a sigh. "I don't want to talk about this."

"At least answer my question," she insisted.

A little groan caught in my throat. "He… didn't say those exact words. But he didn't have to. He proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt in September. I'm over it now."

An incredulous smile spread over Alisha's face, and she shook her head. "No you're not. You're torn to shreds about this."

All of a sudden, anger pushed to the surface. I glowered at the redheaded girl. "This is none of your concern, with all due respect. Now promise me you won't tell another soul, and promise me you won't do something to, to… repair the rift or put us together or _whatever _you want to call it. Promise!"

A glimmer appeared in Alisha's eyes, and my Danger Sense swelled with triumph. She tucked her hands behind her back and shrugged. "Okay."

"That's not good enough," I growled. "And put your hands in plain sight so you can't do that ridiculous crossing-your-fingers gesture to wriggle out of this. Now make both promises. This is important, Alisha."

She looked mulish, but she held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I promise, Vi. I wouldn't be much of a friend if I went against your wishes like that."

Relief washed through me, and I leaned wearily against the back of the couch. "Thank you."

She smiled. "You're welcome, Vi. I wish you'd let me have a crack at it, though."

"No." I glared at her.

Alisha almost whined. "Oh c'mon, hear me out! I'm good at this stuff, really. I wouldn't do anything drastic. I wouldn't even let him know how you feel about him. But I could set it up so that you two could talk."

My eyes darkened. I remembered all too well the things I'd said to him on the roof. From a certain perspective, there had been a brief window of opportunity in the moment he'd saved my life, when he'd been frantic over my safety. But I hadn't taken that opportunity. I'd been unable to, at the time. I was grateful I hadn't been faced with the temptation: It was wrong. Even if I parted with my honor long enough to tell Angel the truth, now, I'd smashed that window of opportunity and destroyed it beyond repair.

"He won't want to talk to me," I assured Alisha gravely. "Even if he could…" I sighed and fell under the heavy mantle of depression once more. "It wouldn't help what I'm going through right now. Nothing will."

Alisha smiled again. Her eyes glittered with delight. "I don't think that's true. You know, there for a minute, I saw the old Violar when you got angry with me."

I bit my lip. "I'm sorry, Alisha. I didn't intend to—"

"Don't apologize!" she interrupted, laughing. "I did it on purpose. I wanted to see if you'd get mad at me, and you did. It was great."

I flushed deeply and ducked my head, robbed of speech.

"Aww, don't take it that way." Alisha's smile was undaunted by my mortification. "I wanted to prove to you that you still have a temper."

Pressing the back of my hand to my superheated cheeks, I avoided her gaze. "Congratulations."

She laughed again. "Sarcasm! My word. This is going far better than I'd hoped! Welcome back to the human race, Violar."

My eyes jolted up to hers, and I gaped. "You are…" I huffed, shaking my head. "Incorrigible."

"Incorrige-a-what?"

I gave her a sullen glower, then looked away. "You heard me."

Alisha burst out laughing again, and the sound touched my heart. Suddenly she lurched forward and wrapped me in a tight hug, and her laughter grew husky – as if choked by tears.

"If it means I can see a little life in you, I don't care what I am," she breathed fervently.

The words, coupled with the sweet sentiment, cracked a wall around my soul. Biting my lip, I hugged the Norwegian girl back.

"Thank you," I whispered. "I don't deserve a friend like you."

Alisha giggled, embarrassed – but pleased. "You're that kind of friend to everyone else. I'm just glad that, finally, something I did… seemed to help."

She choked down a sob and gripped me so tightly that I could hardly breathe. Tears pricked my eyes as I stared over her shoulder. I had already realized, albeit distantly, that "helping me" meant a lot to this girl. But I'd kept that painful knowledge at bay… until now. At that moment, I finally embraced it.

"Everything you've done for me has helped," I assured her. "I'm only sorry that… I couldn't show it sooner."

Alisha shuddered in my arms, then broke down and wept. I glanced toward the ceiling before my vision blurred, and I sniffled.

"I'm… so sorry… for all you've suffered… because of me," I managed.

Alisha cried harder – and gripped me more tightly. Leaning my head on her shoulder, I let the weary tears fall and held her for a long time.

Finally the storm subsided, and she gently released me. Her cream-complexioned face was softer and less anxious than it had been for a long time, and her eyes were sparkling again. It hurt my heart, realizing how much she'd put herself through on my behalf.

"I don't care about any of that," she said, her face glowing. "I just wanted you to be happy again."

I sobered, gazing at Alisha. A mixture of emotions swirled inside of me. I was deeply humbled by her sentiment; at the same time, she didn't know what she was asking of me. I'd grown so accustomed to being miserable in the past few months that the idea of being truly happy seemed impossible.

"Thank you," I whispered, not knowing what else to say.

Alisha beamed at me and breathed a deep sigh filled with relief. She sat back, smiling. "Are you hungry?"

I hesitated. "Maybe a little," I admitted.

Alisha's dazzling smile was pure reward for my answer. "I'll go downstairs and bring up a snack. See you in a minute."

She slid off the couch and headed for the door. I was left alone, and my gaze fell to the paper on the coffee table. I picked it up to read the poem again, and I saw the title Alisha had scrawled at the top: _It's Hard._

Then I thought about what she'd said – about wanting to see me happy again. It was such an impossible dream, but… all my life, I'd clung to impossible dreams.

Suddenly I wanted an impossible dream. I wanted to give form to such a thing – right at that moment. I didn't know if I was capable of it: My imagination and my ability to hope had been destroyed. Biting my lip, I slipped out from beneath the quilt and stood up. I wobbled across the room, collected a pen and a fresh sheet of paper, and returned to the couch to curl up and think.

Then, slowly, I began to write. I wrote of what was – and what might have been. I poured my heart and soul into the words that flowed onto the paper.

_One New York night, I found my destiny;_

_Amid the rush hour traffic,_

_My life was changed._

_Fortune and fate came together_

_On a lonely street corner -_

_So familiar, yet so strange._

_I asked you for the time,_

_But when your piercing eyes met mine_

_The eternal hands of Time stilled._

_Had we met somewhere before?_

_Was it just a crazy dream_

_Out of which reality spilled?_

_Who was this enigmatic man_

_With the Mona Lisa smile_

_And fire in his eyes?_

_A mystery to unravel_

_While unraveling my own,_

_Finding truth amid the lies._

_The world turned without us;_

_The swirl of activity falling_

_In orbit around our hearts._

_Clueless cars hummed past our heaven_

_While city lights came out to shine,_

_Glowing like earthbound stars._

_In the city of a thousand movies_

_Where love is won and lost_

_A hundred times a day,_

_Wayward magic caught our lives -_

_Without rhyme, without reason -_

_And whisked us both so far away._

_Summer took winter's hand_

_As she spread her cloak over him;_

_She calmed his inner storm._

_Opposites, yet kindred spirits,_

_Wrapped in his soul, she found a place_

_To keep her safe and warm._

_Fire and rain, fury and freedom_

_Clashed in the night:_

_Fireworks over Lady Liberty,_

_Bursting out in red and blue_

_That set the heavens all aflame_

_And threw stars into the sea._

_Flaming comets hurtled down on us,_

_Exploding like cannonballs_

_Upon the battleground._

_Tidal waves swept inland,_

_Tossing towers like tiny toys_

_In an evil dragon's playground._

_Still we ran, hand in hand;_

_I trusted you to bring us through_

_To fragile safety's sheltered bay;_

_But furious storm prevailed,_

_Proved too much for ebbing life,_

_And stole away our final day._

_I caught you in my arms, now so weak;_

_When you fell I pulled you close_

_And held you in my heart._

_But our world came to an end;_

_We whispered love with our dying breaths_

_As time wrenched us apart._

_The moon's bitter halo wept_

_Silver tears and star-kissed rain_

_To see the two lovers sundered._

_The curtain of forever ripped in two;_

_Across the drowning skies_

_Death's cruel laughter thundered._

_All my dreams went down in flames_

_Then rose smoldering from the ashes_

_Like the Phoenix reborn;_

_The fire burned away my selfish pride,_

_A fountain of love sprung to life_

_As my heart was torn._

_But you left me far behind,_

_I suffered for you all alone_

_And cried all my tears in vain -_

_Except you taught me how to love,_

_I realized as I stood_

_Amid the softly falling rain._

_I checked my Palm Pilot_

_And found a timeless new appointment_

_Set tonight for eight o'clock;_

_On that New York night_

_I hurried forth, oblivious_

_To meet destiny on a sidewalk._

_Another New York night,_

_Amid the rush hour traffic,_

_I stand on that corner with you;_

_We know what happens next,_

_But we smile; I take your hand in mine_

_As our lives begin anew._

_Perhaps we've met here on this corner_

_A thousand times before_

_To relive this tragic play;_

_Two souls caught in memory -_

_In love, out of time;_

_In eternal echoes our hearts remain._

_We could end this dream anytime_

_If we simply choose to let go_

_And go our separate ways;_

_But I take your hand, again and again;_

_Your love is worth the price,_

_Your smile worth the flames._

_People search for life's meaning,_

_But I got lucky:_

_I found everything I was looking for;_

_Though I might be crazy_

_To live and die for you,_

_I'd spend forever on this street corner._

I tacked on the final period with a flourish, then stared at what I'd written. An impossible dream, indeed. A wish not rooted in reality. If I had turned away from the door, if I'd told St. John that I would see him again, even if I'd fallen to my knees and professed the depths of my love for him… would anything have been different? Anything?

I would never know.

The poem featured a happy ending, yet it was filled with hopelessness. None of it would come to pass in the real world, I thought with a fresh pang of sorrow. Even if it could, none of this would erase the fact that twelve people had died because I wasn't strong enough to love St. John. Aslan only knew how many more would perish at the fire mutant's hands – all because I didn't have what it took to fight hard enough, to love St. John in his darkest hours.

Love is easy in the spring and the sunshine. I knew that. During hard times, the character of the lover is revealed. And I had been revealed for who and what I was. I'd thought myself a fighter, I'd thought myself strong, I'd thought I was capable of offering a man my love even if he didn't love me in return… and I'd discovered that exactly the opposite was true.

I was weak. I'd failed miserably. I'd gambled everything and lost it all. Now I found myself financially supporting a man who was a danger to society – and an unstoppable one at that. The concept rankled my sense of right and wrong. But if I cut him off, my nightmares of St. John embarking on a robbery and possibly a killing spree to obtain the necessary funds for rent might well come to pass. I had no choice.

But money was a poor substitute for love. And it was all I had to offer St. John. What a feeble, pathetic offering it was.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, then wrote a title at the top of my page: _One New York Night. _Simple, but fitting.

I was just folding the paper when Alisha returned with a feast's worth of cold pizza slices. I studied the food for a moment, though my thoughts were elsewhere. Then I looked up at her and drew a deep breath.

"I will try," I said.

**Author's Note:** A very special thank-you to FFN's **Cregga Foeseeker**, who wrote the wonderful poem, "It's Hard," for Violar. And then she gave me permission to use it! Many thanks, Cregga. The poem was perfect for this chapter. In addition, it was a heartwarming gift – to have someone write a poem for my centaur. As you can see from this chapter, Violar appreciated the gift also… very, very much.

One good poem deserves another… "One New York Night" belongs to me. It was written in 2008 for Violar and St. John.


	36. Survivor

Trying was easier said than done.

There were good days; there were bad days. Overwhelmed and brokenhearted by what might have been, for a chance that had flown impossibly beyond my reach, for wasted effort, I wept – sometimes for hours. When I watched the news and saw fresh evidence of what St. John, unrestrained, was capable of, I cried harder.

But a rose bloomed in the desert. I still had Xavier's Institute.

Alisha was more sister than friend. I briefly wondered what the centaurs of Narnia would think if they knew I'd adopted a Norwegian mutant girl for a sister and a German blue creature for a brother, and the thought sent a fleeting smile across my face.

A smile. By the mane, how… strange it felt to smile.

Spending time with Bethany helped. When I looked at my blonde coworker from Bloomingdale's, who looked brighter and walked with a spring in her step, I didn't feel like a complete failure. At least I'd helped her.

"Who'd have ever thought we'd be nursing broken hearts together?" Bethany wondered gently one evening as we sat cross-legged on opposite sides of her couch, playing a card game called War. Unlike real war, there was no skill or strategy involved. Pure luck determined the winner. The game took forever to finish, but it demanded little concentration – which left us plenty of space for conversation.

I winced as she captured one of my jacks with a king. "Not I, for certain. Bethany," I added more quietly, ignoring my cards for the moment. "Walking through a breakup of my own has given me fresh perspective on what you suffered. It caused me to realize how…" I swallowed hard. "How difficult this can be, and how confusing, and… and I just wanted to apologize if I ever came down too hard on you."

Biting my lip against the sudden tears in my eyes, I looked away.

Bethany leaned close and gripped my hand reassuringly. "You told me the truth, Violar. I needed to hear it. Deep down, I knew those things already, but I didn't want to accept any of it. Friends on the outside can see beyond the confusion and the emotional disaster. In hindsight, I can see more clearly, now that I've made a clean break from Derek. And you were exactly right. I'll tell you what, Vi. I'm happy now. I'm really happy."

I looked up at her. The burdens of the world, which had contributed to wrinkles and lines on Bethany's young face where none should have existed, were gone. Hesitantly, I smiled.

"You're gonna get better, Vi," she told me softly. I lowered my head and dissolved into tears under the influence of her kindness. "We're right here, and everything is gonna be okay. Just give it time. You'll feel better soon, trust me."

I nodded, sniffling. I wished I could believe that, but my heart was still haunted by those ice blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"It's okay to cry, Violar."

I'd heard that before. But I fought anyway, swallowing hard until I regained a measure of composure.

"Thanks, Bethany."

"You're welcome. So do you want me to break out the chocolate ice cream now, or shall we wait until I've won the rest of your cards?"

I smothered a little laugh, then shot her a grateful glance. "I can wait until _I've_ conquered the rest of _your_ cards."

She giggled. A wicked glimmer appeared in her blue eyes, and suddenly she picked up her cards and threw them against my deck. Cards splattered everywhere.

"Oopsie," she remarked with a sly grin, sliding off the couch. "Looks like there's been an irreparable foul-up. Game's over."

I chuckled and shook my head. "You're a bad girl, Beth," I said, leaning against the couch arm to stretch the kinks out of my back.

She tossed a grin over her shoulder as she sauntered toward the kitchen. "Nope, I'm a _good_ girl. I want my chocolate _now_, that's all. Moreover, I'm a good momma. Baby wants chocolate." She rubbed her stomach tenderly and disappeared through the doorway.

I smiled, spun around and swung my bare feet to the floor, and I leaned against the back of the couch. Breathing softly, I gazed at the textured white ceiling while I waited for dessert to arrive.

"How's your baby, by the way?"

"By all indications, everything's perfectly normal," came her voice from the kitchen. "Medical insurance has covered regular prenatal checkups. And so far, I haven't had much trouble with morning sickness."

"That's a mercy," I rejoined, imagining patterns in the textured ceiling. I saw an armored knight holding a spear, riding a warped horse with a misshapen head and only three legs. He was attacking – of all things – a spooky old tree. It had two dark, ghostly holes for eyes and a big yawning mouth that stretched down the trunk nearly to the roots, and its elongated leaves looked like old socks strewn through the canopy branches.

"Yeah, it's been really nice 'cause I'm ravenous these days. It's like, I can't ever eat enough. I think this baby's gonna be a little boy."

The corner of my mouth turned up, but I was occupied by the ceiling. A giant reptilian sea monster with six legs and a sawed-off tail crawled over a mountain range made of crocodile teeth.

"Or else he's a little mutant," I suggested absently. "Some of the mutants have enormous appetites."

A loud crash came from the kitchen. I bolted upright and craned around, staring hard at the doorway. "Bethany?"

"Uh…" Sheepish laughter drifted to my ears. "I'm fine. I just dropped a mug, that's all, but it didn't break."

Frowning, I sank into my previous position and stared at the ceiling. Try as I might, I couldn't find the knight and his strange horse, the spooky sock tree, or the sea monster and the crocodile teeth.

"And here we are," announced Bethany as she returned to the couch, handing me a bowl piled high with chocolate ice cream, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream. "Ice cream for eight, but since there are only two of us, might as well dig in."

I huffed and smiled. I lifted a spoonful of ice cream in a toasting gesture. "Here's to the six who couldn't join us."

"Hear, hear." Bethany grinned, lifted her own spoonful of ice cream, and savored it with true feminine delight.

And then the phone rang.

With a quizzical glance at me, Bethany rose from the couch and answered it.

"Hello? …Yes, this is Bethany. …What? You're… oh. Hello, Marcia." Bethany briefly covered the receiver and caught my eyes. "It's our boss. Yes, Marcia, I'm doing great, thanks. …Mhmm. … Ha, yeah. If you have a company picnic day, I'd like to request pickles and tuna. …Good, thanks. …Oh yes, I have seen Violar. She's right here. Hold on."

Bethany held out the phone to me. With a regretful glance at the chocolate ice cream, I rose and moved around the couch to take the phone from Bethany. I pressed it to my ear. "Hello, Marcia?"

"Hey, Violar. It's good to hear your voice," replied the woman on the other end of the line.

"Yours as well, Marcia."

"Jean Grey was kind enough to call and tell me what was going on. I know the story behind your emergency leave of absence. I'm so sorry. How are you doing?"

I hesitated, wondering how much Jean had told Marcia. "As well as can be expected, I suppose."

"Good, good. Well, listen. I hate to interrupt your leave, but I was wondering if you'd be available for a half-shift tomorrow evening."

I winced. Too many people in a small space, unhappy customers, long hours between lunch breaks, tangling with the malicious computer system, achy feet.

_Sounds like fun._

"Um, I could probably do that. What happened?"

"Well, nothing serious. This is the slow time of year at Bloomingdale's while our customers recover from overspending during the Christmas season, as you know, so the timing of your absence and Bethany's temporary maternity leave was perfect. But this is also cold-and-flu season, and the bug took out three of my employees unexpectedly. I just had another one call in today, and she sounded deathly ill, so I thought I'd ring you and see if you can cover. Or Bethany, if she's feeling up to it. She said she'd be back after she adjusts to being pregnant, and ordinarily that wouldn't be a problem, but—"

I sighed. "That's alright, Marcia. What time do you need me?"

"Would four o'clock be a good time for you? My morning person leaves at three, and I could cover for an hour until you show up."

"Certainly. I'll be there."

* * *

I had a rough day.

Returning to Bloomingdale's was hard enough: The sights of the busy store, the smells of new clothing and plastic and floor cleaning products and a kaleidoscope of perfumes from the passing crowds, accompanied the familiar feeling of stepping behind that Customer Service counter and asking over and over: "Can I help you?"

The mundane actions reminded me of the way things once were – before I'd met St. John. I filled out exchange slips. I counted back change for refunds. I fought with the evil computer, which was being its usual disagreeable self. And then I found myself confronted by a tall, slender blonde woman who brought back a pair of furry gray boots. Which were coated with traces of dried mud.

"Is there anything defective with the product?" I asked politely, pushing aside the mental image this woman's haughty attitude, black feather boa, fitted leopard-print blouse and bright red lipstick immediately conjured: A younger, prettier version of Cruella de Vil from _101 Dalmatians_.

"No," she sniffed, tilting her chin up, "but I don't like them, and I want to exchange them."

It wasn't the most impertinent complaint we'd ever dealt with behind Bloomingdale's Customer Service desk.

"I see. Well, ma'am, since used items are no longer saleable, it's our company policy not to exchange used items unless the item is defective _and _you have the receipt that shows the item to be still under warranty," I quoted straight from the employee handbook.

The woman's brown eyes ignited. "I don't have the receipt," she snapped.

"And there's nothing defective with the item?"

Her nostrils flared, and my Danger Sense burned. "I demand to speak with your manager." She slammed the boots onto my counter.

I swallowed hard. "Ma'am, calm down," I replied coolly, sensing an imminent battle. "I'll be happy to fetch the manager for you, but I assure you that this is Bloomingdale's company-wide policy and—"

"I've been a longtime customer of Bloomingdale's for years," the indignant woman interrupted, plunking a shapely hand on her slender hip. "I think I've earned the right to return a pair of boots if I don't _like_ them. Now call up your manager, lady!"

I despised acquiescing to unreasonable demands. Gritting my teeth hard, I averted my glare to the countertop – and the innocent pair of boots in question. Stiffly I turned, snatched the phone from the receiver, and pressed number five to ring Marcia's desk.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

I frowned, tapping my boot toe. _Come on, Marcia. Pick up._

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Reluctantly I hung up the phone. "I'll have to ask you to wait a few minutes, ma'am," I informed her quietly. "The manager has either stepped out of the office, or she's on the other line."

"Then call another manager."

I folded my arms. "She's the only one on duty."

"Where's her office?"

"I'm not allowed to give out that information."

"I think you're lying."

"Are _you_ employed by Bloomingdale's, or am I?"

The woman face twisted into a snarl. "Don't you get smart with me, lady! I'll see to it that you're fired!"

My temper boiled. I felt my jaw twitch. But I fought to stay calm. "I'm only following proper procedure, ma'am. This is Bloomingdale's company pol—"

"What kind of customer service is this? You're supposed to be in the business of _serving the customer_, not the company!"

"Well, ma'am," I clipped, feeling my composure start to give way, "without the company, there wouldn't be any customer service, would there?"

"You've got your priorities screwed up! Without customers, there _is_ no company!"

I unfolded my arms and stepped forward threateningly. Any Narnian would have known to back off immediately. "And if we bowed to the whims of every customer who marched in here and demanded refunds for items they purchased long ago," I retorted in a low, dangerous tone, "which are no longer covered by warranty, clearly have no defects due to our high standards of quality, and have been rendered un-saleable due to _normal_ wear and tear, we'd go out of business."

"What do you want me to do, take scissors and slash them? I don't like these boots!"

"We didn't _force_ you to purchase them, did we?"

"Ever heard of buyer's remorse?"

"Buyer's remorse isn't covered by warranty."

"I want my money back!"

"I'm not authorized to give it to you."

"You're a lying—!"

"And you've just crossed the line." I glared at her. "Take your stinking boots and get out of my store, _right now_, before I call security."

Shock and outrage blazed across her face. She leaned across the counter at me. "How dare you threaten me!"

"This is your last warning," I growled darkly as heat roared through my veins.

She let out a piercing shriek and stamped her high-heeled foot. "Moron! Idiot! Ninny!"

"Spoiled brat," I rejoined harshly. "You have three seconds to leave with your dignity intact before I make the call." Without removing my scalding glare from the gorgeous shrew, I reached for the phone. "One." I lifted the receiver. "Two. Th—"

"What's going on here?"

The woman and I jolted backwards at the same moment. Marcia stood there in her neat navy-colored business suit, her arms folded across her chest. She looked at me, then at the woman, then back again.

Everything inside of me froze up. I stared at my boss. She didn't look happy.

The blonde virago aimed a vicious forefinger at me. "This _woman_ has no business being in customer service! Do you know what she did to me? I'll tell you what she did to me…"

I paled. The words "no business" – snapped at me in such derisive tones – brought back the memory of flames in St. John's icy blue eyes as he'd shoved me out of his life with similar language. Tears surged into my throat. The woman continued screeching, and I never heard what Marcia said. The walls closed in on me. I couldn't breathe.

I gasped and doubled over in agony. "Excuse me…"

I broke from behind the counter and took off running through the store, ignoring the shout of my name from somewhere behind me. I had to get out. I had to leave, now…

I bolted out the back doors before I burst into tears. I slid down the wall and sat on the cold cement, sobbing hard against my hands for a long time. I curled up, rocking back and forth, waiting for my devastation to run its course.

When I could finally draw a shaky breath without sniffling, I felt cold and empty inside. My head ached and my heart ached worse.

_I should never have come to work today._

Then I remembered Marcia. I'd marooned her at the Customer Service desk. And I was the only other customer service representative on duty.

The thought made me wince. I pushed myself off the ground, pulled open the doors, gathered the shards of my courage, and walked back into Bloomingdale's with my head held high and an impassive expression firmly fixed in place.

I found Marcia leaning her forearms on the counter, watching me calmly as though she'd been expecting my return. The neutral look on her face disconcerted me.

"Marcia," I greeted her quietly, pushing open the low divider and stepping behind the counter. "Forgive me for leaving without your permission. It… it won't happen again."

A furrow appeared in Marcia's brow. Arms folded, she rotated her body and leaned back against the counter, studying me. After an agonizing moment, I recognized the emotion that dominated my Danger Sense: Concern.

"I wish I could have called someone else in today. Not you."

I flinched. That hurt – and it made me feel more fragile than before.

"I apologize, Marcia," I replied, not knowing what else to say.

She shook her head with a deep sigh. "It's not your fault, Violar. You're going through a difficult time. I can't imagine how hard it must be for you right now."

I lowered my gaze, lips pursed in regret. "Jean Grey must have told you a lot."

"She told me enough. Death is… not easy to cope with. Jean said you fell in love with a young man who became terminally ill. I'm very sorry for your loss."

My eyes shadowed. _You don't know the half of it, Marcia._

I wasn't in the mood to enlighten her.

I swallowed hard. "Thank you." Not wanting to dwell on it further, I changed the subject. "What happened with, er… with…"

"Cruella?"

Apparently I wasn't the only one who'd had the thought. "Yes."

Marcia's lips twisted into what I thought was a smirk before they dropped into neutrality again. "I quoted store policy. She threw a tantrum. Security dragged her out of here."

I raised my eyebrows, then shrugged. "I gave her fair warning."

Marcia straightened up. "I'm sure you did your best under the circumstances. Your tact, graciousness, patience and eloquence have all been assets to our Customer Service department. You can't win 'em all. But take heart: You only have..." She checked her watch. "Three hours before closing time."

With the way I felt, Marcia could've condemned to the Customer Service desk for the rest of eternity. I merely nodded.

Marcia patted my shoulder as she stepped out from behind the counter. Then she rubbed a hand across her forehead, looking suddenly tired.

"It's been a tough day for everyone. Must be the full moon."

I grew curious. "Why? What happened?"

My boss scowled. "My oldest daughter, Emily, is a straight-A student and a good girl. You met her, right?"

I nodded. The slender teenage girl with curly brown hair had visited Bloomingdale's on more than one occasion. She looked like a miniature version of her mother. I'd been immediately impressed with her intelligence and polite manners.

"She was sent to detention today for misbehavior."

Shocked, I gaped at Marcia. "What?"

She sighed and shrugged, shaking her head. "From the early reports, she got into a fight with another girl. That's not at all like Emily. Pressures of seventh grade taking their toll, I guess. So if I seem a little more stressed than usual, that's why."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I offered, concerned.

"It's fine, really. She should be home by now, and we're going to have a serious talk tonight."

I bit my lip, debating whether to say anything. "Um, Marcia? If I might make a small suggestion…"

"Sure, go ahead."

"As you said, Emily's a good girl. Listen to her side of the story very carefully before doing anything about it."

A wry smile tweaked her mouth to one side, giving her an impish look. "I will. Thanks for the reminder."

* * *

Those three hours were some of the longest I'd ever endured. I experienced what Marcia called "a minor blood sugar crash," which prompted me to call her for an emergency lunch break. In the back room, while waiting for my microwaveable egg rolls to finish heating up, I'd poured myself a hot cup of coffee. And spilled it all over myself.

I yelped as the scalding liquid burnt my skin. I pulled my drenched skirt away from my legs and tried to mop up the coffee with paper towels, but it left a nasty brown-black stain in the cream-colored fabric which I doubted would come out.

The day could not end soon enough.

Marcia's unhappy mood further weighed down my Danger Sense. But I was glad to see her when she arrived to do the final audit.

With something that hopefully passed as a proper farewell, I stuffed my time card into the noisy little machine on the wall and ran from Bloomingdale's back doors. I dashed across the deserted parking lot and made for the sidewalk with every intent to flag down the first taxi I laid eyes on and speed back to the mansion. But other folks beat me to them all. It took nearly twenty minutes before I finally collapsed into the backseat of an empty one and instructed the driver to take me to Xavier's.

After the taxi dropped me off at the gates, I tore through the mansion straight to my room, changed out of my work attire, put on a long-sleeved burgundy blouse and a brown skirt instead, shifted into my golden palomino centaur form, then galloped out into the courtyard and straight into the woods.

After a long, stressful day, I wanted nothing more than to race away from it all. I shook out my hair and snarled, dodging trees and leaping fallen logs; hungry for freedom and chasing it with all my might. I pounded through the forest without my usual secrecy. These were the woods behind the mansion: I felt relatively safe there.

That's when I saw someone. A stranger.

Skidding to a halt, I stood and stared at the cloaked figure through the dark trees, thrashing my tail in idle warning. The man - I could tell he was a man, though half of his face was hidden in the shadows of his hood – spotted me at the same moment. I had no time to pretend that I was something other than a centaur.

I gave him a curt nod, studying him with my natural wariness and determining whether or not he was a threat. I sifted my Danger Sense: There was something… familiar about this person.

"Good evening," I ventured by way of greeting.

A slight smile tugged a corner of his lips, revealing a few more of his rugged features. "And to you, Miss Wildfire."

I started. "How do you know my name?"

The shadowed smile grew wistful. "You told me, once – a long time ago. Before we go any farther," he added quickly with genuine amusement, "I remember your curiosity. You ask too many questions. As a woman who has traveled through time yourself, I must ask you not to talk about our meeting with anyone."

_A time traveler?_

Shifting hooves, I narrowed my eyes. "Why not?"

"Another of your questions, Miss Wildfire. But I will answer this one. You know that interference can change history and alter the future." His smile fell into a harder, bitter expression. "Not that the future isn't worth changing."

I bit my lip. A pang of sympathy went through my heart, and I softened towards him. "I'm sorry that… things haven't worked out for you," I hedged cautiously.

He let out a rough chuckle. "I remember this about you too, Miss Wildfire. You cared for everyone. Even some…" He trailed off, as if he'd said too much.

I lowered my gaze and finished his thought for him. "Even some who didn't deserve it."

His breath hitched. "Well. That would be a matter of opinion, wouldn't it." His next smile was forced.

I shrugged and lifted my chin – an outward show of pride I didn't feel. "I'm of the opinion that everyone deserves the opportunity to be cared for, and if they turn it down, it's… their loss."

That brave, idealistic philosophy sounded hollow in my own ears. It seemed a fine and noble cause, but now I knew that it could destroy a person's soul. On top of that, philosophy hadn't saved St. John.

I tightened by jaw, unable to say one more word – or I'd risk breaking down. I took a step backwards and scowled my heartbreak back beneath my rigid control.

"If you'd only listened to me," he said quietly. "I proposed other ways of dealing with the pain."

I fixed a solid glare on him, suddenly on the attack. "Is that why you've come back here? To tell me that I shouldn't have done what I already did? If so, you're a little late for that."

His expression hardened. "I did not come here to change anything. Not that I would mind if things changed, but… I'm under orders."

"Are you one of the mutants?"

"Again with the questions, Miss Wildfire."

"This one is important."

He breathed a heavy sigh. "Since I have your word… Yes, I am a mutant."

The edge in his tone, when he called himself a mutant, gave me pause. "Why are you really here?"

The hooded gaze strayed in the direction of the mansion, which was barely visible through the thick trees. He was quiet for so long that I thought he wouldn't reply, after all, and the evening breeze chilled the silence between us. Finally he spoke.

"I came here to escape the future, Miss Wildfire."

So much sadness radiated through each word that just hearing that phrase nearly wrenched tears from me. I had to clear my throat twice.

"Why would you come here, now?" I managed huskily. "Surely you must know that things are hardly…" I bit my lip and gave my head a quick shake, at a loss for words. "The Professor's gone. He went to France… and he's not coming back." Tears broke through my defenses and pooled beneath my vision.

He nodded. "I know."

I choked down a sniffle. "Then why here? Why now?"

"Because things were still the same," he replied cryptically. "You've only been at the mansion – what, four months, Miss Wildfire?"

"Five," I answered quietly. "Almost six. And please call me Violar."

"Very well… Violar." A smile lurked in his voice, as if he'd known that I'd wanted to be called by my first name all along. "You've been a part of Xavier's long enough to know that we struggle. We are no strangers to difficult periods of time. Charles' departure was one of many challenges to overcome."

"Then why did you leave?" I asked. The question came out more bluntly than I'd intended, and I was quick to add, "If you were accustomed to facing challenges, what ultimately made you give up… this family?"

After a long hesitation, he responded in a tone so low that I could barely hear him. "Things changed after Xavier left."

I mentally ran through a list of mutants in my mind, hoping for a clue to this stranger's identity. But to my knowledge, none of the mutants had left Xavier's – save Angel, and he hadn't left because of the Professor's departure. While a sense of mourning and loss hung heavily in those corridors, I hadn't felt any discontent, discord, or a change in our collective direction. We'd lost our great leader, but we were on the same mission. We were still Xavier's Institute. We remained family.

Or maybe I'd lost touch with them during my time with St. John. Perhaps I'd been so absorbed in my own troubles that, while Xavier's was crumbling about my ears, I was oblivious.

I lowered my eyes, unwilling to believe that. "I'm... so sorry, Master… um, by what name should I call you?" At once I bit my lip. "Forgive me for asking. It's just that—"

"Call me Drifter," came his quiet reply. "That's all I am, now."

My throat constricted, and I gazed at the lights of Xavier's as they gleamed faintly through the trees. History in both Narnia and this world had shown that the greatest of empires eventually crumbled to dust, but to have evidence of the Institute's future destruction standing there in front of me was more than I could tolerate. This man was a forgotten relic who belonged to the future's past. He had no home. He came here, just to remember what it had been like – once upon a time. It broke my heart.

"Drifter," I repeated softly, taking a step closer to his side. How I longed to comfort him – to offer him one more moment as part of Xavier's family. That meant sharing the concerns of the present – my present. "I've taken Professor Xavier's loss pretty hard. He was a good friend of mine. More than a friend... more like a mentor, and a father. I loved him very much. But... slowly things are starting to come back together. Or something..." I sighed. "I miss him."

He glanced sideways at me, and I ducked my head to resist the temptation to search his features and determine his identity. I had excellent night vision. At this closer range, I could have recognized him in the darkness all too easily. I wondered if Drifter knew that.

"Yeah," he answered finally. "I see that he mattered to you, too."

I nodded, staring at the frozen forest floor. "Scott's taken his place, now, and time will tell what sort of leader he is. But the rest of my family is here... so I remain."

A flare went off in my Danger Sense, and I glanced up at Drifter. Either he didn't like Scott, or else Scott had made a terrible leader. It occurred to me that Scott might have made a mistake that led to the Institute's demise.

And then it occurred to me, too late, that I wasn't supposed to be contemplating these things.

Abruptly I buckled my knees and sat down in the midst of the forest. "Tell me about him," I prodded quietly. "Professor Xavier, I mean. Tell me what he did for you."

Drifter hesitated. "I cannot tell you anything you don't already know."

"I'm not trying to compromise you or the future," I assured him. "Tell me what I already know, if you must."

Drifter sighed. "Xavier is a good man. After I… well." He cut himself off. "After a certain difficult period in my life, he helped me regain my memory – to find my roots, my identity. Everything that made me who I am was purged during the, um… that period of time. In effect, I owe the Professor everything."

I was startled by his reference to Xavier in the present tense, but I tried not to show it. Whether Drifter knew it or not, he'd dropped so many clues that I was struggling against the powerful urge to piece them together and solve the mystery.

Instead, I withdrew. "The Professor was kind like that to everyone." I was silent for a while, lost in thought. Then I went on. "He did a lot of things... for a lot of people. For me, he..." I smiled in spite of myself. "He gave me a home, which I haven't had for... a very long time. And a father. A lot of mutants have lost their families, in one way or another, so I'm loath to complain of my circumstances overmuch... yet we all needed a family, and he gave us one. He was like our father, and then he built a family around himself - for us. That's what he was to me, and more."

Drifter grunted in agreement. "I don't… I didn't think of him as a father. I thought of him as a close friend."

Again with the present tense – before he'd corrected himself. Was Professor Xavier still alive, in Drifter's future?

"He was that too," I replied before I could contemplate further. "He hasn't left us. He promised he would stay - in the mansion, and in our hearts. So at the mansion I remain, because he's still there. He's a part of that place. He's a part of _me,_ of who I am. And so is Scott." I ventured a warm smile, ignoring the black tendril of hatred that invaded my Danger Sense at the mention of Cyclops. And I was quick to defend him. "Scott will grow into his place as the leader, I'm sure of it. And I plan to help him if I can."

I sensed Drifter scowling, as if he'd clenched his jaw. "Yeah. Well…" He inhaled sharply, as if to dampen his hostility towards Scott. "I hope you are okay, Violar."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. That remark, offered to me by another warrior who'd survived the rubble of a fallen civilization, shook me to the core and resonated inside of me.

_I hope you are okay, Violar._

I wasn't. Was I?

Perhaps being in the presence of a time traveler impacted me in a different way, but I suddenly saw my life from an outsider's perspective: I'd fallen in love with Angel, been cast aside and forgotten – and I'd moved past that. On sheer determination alone, I'd moved past that. I'd lost Professor Xavier, who meant more to me than I could've said. Then I'd slipped into an enchanted moment with St. John, and I'd walked with him through a tumultuous journey of fledgling love and terminal illness and death. I'd stood and faced the black gates of hell itself.

And somehow, by some miracle, I'd survived. Against impossible odds, I'd _survived_.

My senses flared, and I drew a deep, deep breath of delicious air. I felt my lungs swell with sweet oxygen that was an undeserved gift. Life flooded through me in a tidal wave of awakening. Slowly, I smiled back.

"Thank you, Drifter." Suddenly I braced my forefeet against the ground and lurched to my hooves, standing tall and thrashing my tail. Fire ignited through my veins with every word I spoke, and I felt energy from the earth itself surge through me. "I've survived a great many things. I'm a tough centaur. It'll take a lot more than this to kill me."

I laughed suddenly – a mirthless laugh full of triumph. I _had_ lived through impossible circumstances. I'd come through fire and death with a great many scars... invisible scars that no one else could see, but scars I would always feel. And there was a strange glory rising inside of me: I felt invincible, to have dragged myself from that smoking rubble - broken and bleeding, but breathing. I was alive. I was strong, I was a warrior... and I was alive.

Wild rage roared through my blood, and I backed away from Drifter before this insanity raced out of my control. I wanted to fight him. I wanted to rip off his hood and expose his identity, then fight him – for no reason at all. In this crazed mood, I was liable to kill him.

I wanted to unleash a primal cry to the heavens and let the whole world know that I was _alive_.

My eyes blazed with this strange fire, and I suddenly wondered who I was – who I had become, even in that moment. I gave Drifter a fierce smile. When I spoke, my voice was low and deadly.

"Yes. I'm quite alright, Drifter. Thank you."

A low laugh came from within the shadowed hood, and a deep sense of satisfaction and amusement filled my Danger Sense. "You are something, Violar," remarked the stranger. "I like that."

"That I am 'something'?" A sudden laugh bubbled inside me. Something had happened to me in that defining moment - something that defied definition. I didn't understand it. I could only stand there as an ocean of power swept over me, like I'd been struck by lightning and everything inside of me had been shocked into a higher realm of existence.

I'd passed through the dark valleys of death. I'd been abandoned by my parents, by the Professor, by Angel, by St. John, and by countless other friends I'd lost…

The excessive pain, and the will to survive it, had killed the centaur I'd been and resurrected me into a new creature. All I could feel was instinct, and glory, and intense strength, and the pure joy of simply _breathing_. I sucked in great lungfuls of twilight air and stardust: How good it tasted!

And suddenly none of it mattered. Nothing mattered – not the future, not the past, not living or dying. Only the here and the now and the wildfire that had consumed me from the inside out.

"I don't know what I am," I responded to Drifter, only half aware of his presence. "But part of me is a warrior." I looked down at my stiffening right hand, which I slowly clenched into a brutally tight fist. "Not in the sense that I... am capable of fighting others," I attempted to explain, my voice still low and dark. I locked my gaze with the eyes of the time traveler. I had become terrible as a villain, and I spoke out each revelation at it slammed into my consciousness and became reality. "Inside of me, _I_ am a warrior. This... this is what you become when you look death in the eyes and pass through that fire. If you survive it, you become... a warrior."

Drifter nodded, his smile mysterious. "I know. Been there before myself. I learned to control it."

I suddenly wondered if this was why Drifter had come – to change me. Maybe he had altered the future because of his encounter with me.

But no – no. I refused to believe that. Whatever had exploded to life like a sleeping dragon inside of me had only been waiting to be triggered, to be awakened. Now it was awake.

The relentless fire inside of me continued to burn. But I stood there, unmoving, as some part of me hardened to steel and iron. The memory of a commercial I'd seen on television surfaced with startling clarity: A young man, strong and indomitable, who was scaling a cliff. He neared the top, and he lost a handhold. For one breathless moment, he hung over empty air – over eternity. Then, with a roar that seemed to shout, "I will _not_ die!" he swung his hand onto the cliff and gripped it with even fiercer determination than before. He crawled, he clawed, he made his way to the top of that barren mountain.

And a military uniform materialized onto him as the announcer spoke.

"The passage is intense, but if you complete the journey, you will be changed forever. The few. The proud. The Marines."

Suddenly I understood. I'd completed the journey. I'd become a warrior.

For a long time I said nothing - but I watched Drifter intently, waiting. But for what? I didn't know. Fierce glory raged through my whole body until I trembled at the power of it. I was awake and alive as I'd never been.

"Tell me what you mean," I growled finally, forcing the words through my constricted throat.

Drifter only smiled. "This is only the beginning. You'll learn to control it eventually. Believe me, I know. I've lived a long time, and I've fought many battles in my lifetime."

"So have I." My low voice burned with intensity. I stood there, all fury and fire and iron and freedom. "For the last twelve years of my life, I have been embroiled in war - inside my own soul, and on the outside as I've battled for things I believe in, especially freedom. But this... _this_ feeling is different. It doesn't _control _me. Nor do I control _it_. I am totally, completely free - free as I've never been before. I feel like the wind could never again pick me up and carry me away; it is not that kind of free. Rather it is the complete absence of fear, of weakness... it has all been burned away inside of me, Drifter. It's gone."

Suddenly I half-reared and slammed my hooves viciously onto the ground, a minor expression of the change that had come over me – and a challenge.

Drifter never moved. "Interesting."

I glared at him. "I am not the same centaur who met you a moment ago, Drifter. My name," I added deliberately, "is Zephina Freeheart Wildfire. I no longer need to hide anything. My mask is worthless. I am strong now, and truly free."

He chuckled, well satisfied. "Good."

I uttered a furious laugh. "That's the understatement of the century."

"I know." He turned and strode into the shadowed forest. "See you around, Zephina."

I shifted hooves impatiently under the influence of this stormy, violent joy that had burst upon me. Every predatory instinct in my body flared to life as I watched the cloaked man move away. I suddenly wanted to hunt him down like a lion. I backed swiftly with a low growl.

And then he vanished into thin air.

The instant I was alone, I bared my teeth and snarled. "No, you won't."

Whirling suddenly, I took off at a furious gallop like a lightning bolt through the trees. The thunder of my own hooves shook the earth as I beat it down over and over again, determined to subdue it. My muscles burned beneath my wind-whipped hide. Fury exploded inside of me as I broke into a clearing, and I threw back my head and roared.

"Aslan!" I shouted to the starry heavens, breathing heavily. I reared up and leapt toward the sky with all my might, unleashing another roar. "Aslan!"

I hit the ground and wheeled, pawing fiercely at the golden winter grass and thrashing my tail. I looked around wildly. My senses were so alive that shadows melted away, and the moonlit world around me brightened into ice blue daylight.

A weapon. I needed a weapon.

I raced toward the forest and rammed my body into the first stout low-hanging branch I found. It snapped free in a shower of splinters. Whirling the branch like a huge quarterstaff, I executed a flying turn in full gallop and bolted across the clearing.

I roared as I rushed toward the trees and plunged into the forest. I slammed the quarterstaff into the first tree I passed, striking it like a foe.

_Death,_ I snarled in my thoughts. _You tried to conquer me. You failed._

The tree shuddered at my wrath. Running hard, I swung my quarterstaff at another tree.

_Love, you killed my parents. You didn't kill me._

The tree crashed to the ground. I kept on running, eying my next target. I raised the quarterstaff over my head and bore down on a helpless young spruce.

_Aslan, you put me through this world's hell. You didn't defeat me._

_Crack!_

My quarterstaff snapped in two. Wild with rage, I skidded to a halt and sent a scorching glare at the thicket on my left.

The thicket moved. Golden fur shimmered in the moonlight as a magnificent lion padded into view, his bright yellow eyes reflecting the flames that burned in mine.

I turned to face him. "So," I growled. "Is that the worst you can do to me?"

He bared his fangs and uttered a leonine snarl, but he was smiling. My spirits soared crazily. All the violent joy I felt, Aslan felt also.

The muscles beneath his gleaming fur rippled, and his sharp claws unsheathed. "Would you like to find out?"

A challenge! I threw the broken branch to the ground with a furious laugh and balled my fists, grinning fiercely at the big lion. "I survived," I snarled back. "I'll beat you too, Aslan."

I charged. Aslan rose on his hind paws to catch the full brunt of my attack. My body slammed into his. Suddenly – I don't know how – Aslan flipped me over. The stars spun crazily overhead, and I landed hard on my back.

I burst out laughing. Abruptly I rolled over and scrambled to my hooves, dirty and panting and glaring at the huge lion.

"You say you love me," I snapped, raising my fists. "But you _let_ me go through this – all of this. For nothing!"

Incensed beyond reason, I charged Aslan again and leapt for his back. My huge body collided with his, and I seized his long mane. Suddenly I felt myself thrown clear, his mane slipped through my fingers, and I flew through the air – as if I weighed no more than a housecat – and skidded across the ground.

I pushed myself up, wild with rage. "Why?" I demanded through clenched teeth, glaring at the moonlight-frosted creature with the burning yellow eyes. I leapt to my hooves and I circled around him. "How could you _do_ this to me!"

I galloped toward him, spun at the last moment, and sent both hind feet hard into his rib cage. Aslan grunted at the blow and disappeared beneath my stomach. My frenzied instincts boiled as I felt his claws rake deep and his teeth rip into my hide…

Like velvet. Like sweet, cooling, icy-hot mint paste that soothed and healed the aches in my muscles – and my heart.

An indignant squeal died in my throat. Shock paralyzed my nerves. My body simply folded up and collapsed until I sat down on the ground, and I found myself eye to eye with the lion. I seethed, panting heavily. Aslan stared back at me with unshakable calm.

"You became a warrior long ago, daughter. But now, you have become a greater warrior."

The edge slipped from my anger. I glowered at Aslan, breathing hard. The effects of my passionate rage continued to run hot through my blood, but now I had the ability to think with more clarity.

Aslan was right. I'd thought myself a warrior a long time ago. But this – this was something else entirely, as if I'd finally become invincible.

Never taking his steadfast gaze from mine, Aslan sidestepped enough that I could see his side. I'd kicked his ribs hard enough that my hooves should have left distinctive imprints in his fur – and possibly broken bones. But no such marks marred the smooth perfection of his coat.

"The greatest battles have yet to be fought, Zephina," Aslan continued as my wild glare came back to his honey-gold eyes. "Yet the greatest battle has already been won." I knew he was speaking of his victory over the White Witch at the Stone Table. "When you come through the greatest battles, nothing can touch you."

My fury melted away. A dull, bewildered hurt took its place.

"What does my survival mean when I failed?"

"You measure your failures and successes by the wrong standards, Zephina. By those standards, I was defeated at the Stone Table."

I bit the inside of my cheek and winced. Again, Aslan was right. I hadn't been there, but the story had been told throughout Narnia. I'd even seen it in my dreams: The great lion, bound to a great alter made of stone, with the White Witch standing over him with a wicked-looking dagger raised over his heart. I grimaced again and pushed the painful memory away.

Then he'd resurrected. Like I had. My steadier gaze returned to Aslan, and I found him smiling.

I scowled at him. "Where were you?" I demanded, a catch in my voice. "The whole time I walked through the Valley of the Shadow, where _were_ you?"

Aslan's eyes deepened with intensity and a warmth that touched my concrete soul.

"I never left you, Zephina. I told you that I would never leave you, and I didn't."

I swallowed hard and pursed my lips tightly, looking away. Part of me still wanted to hold onto my anger at Aslan for all I'd been through – all he'd _allowed_ me to go through, beginning with the death of my parents and ending now with the loss of St. John.

"I don't understand," I admitted irritably with a stubborn shake of my head.

"You will, in time," replied the lion quietly. "Trust me. Tonight, you've had a glimpse of that understanding."

I drew a deep breath and held it, allowing the oxygen to flood my body. Slowly I released that lungful of air and stared up at the bright stars shining down on me. The newfound strength hadn't left my body, though the wild uncontrollable passion and fury and strangely vicious joy had subsided. I felt somehow remade.

And Aslan had been responsible for this transformation in me. With a little sigh, I looked gravely at him.

"I trust you," I said almost grudgingly. "I don't like… running blind. I hate making mistakes. I don't want to get hurt. But if this is the way it has to be…" I shrugged. "I trust you."

Aslan smiled softly. His honey-colored eyes shimmered with a gratitude that surprised me and touched my heart. Then he opened his great jaws and breathed on me, and the sweet fragrance of his warm breath surrounded me. I closed my eyes as everything inside of me grew still, like one of the glass-smooth autumn lakes in New York.

The scent slowly faded. When I opened my eyes again, the lion was gone. I was alone.

And yet… I wasn't alone.

I rose to my hooves and squared my shoulders. Something inside of me had been healed that night, along with the steel that had been forged into my very bones. And I had seen Aslan again.

I turned eastward – toward Xavier's – and started for home at an easy lope. I could almost hear the soft pad of a lion's paws beside me.


	37. Cookies

Wild with fright, I sank to the floor, cornered by flames.

They closed in around me like wicked little red-orange goblins. Their crackling turned to horrible laughter in my ears as they moved in for the kill. Panting desperately, I cowered beneath the thick pillars of smoke, gasping and choking. I couldn't breathe.

There was no way out. I was trapped.

I covered my head with my arms as the burning warmth of the fire consumed me. I sucked in one last desperate breath – and I knew the moment my life was extinguished. It snuffed out, and the flames and the terror vanished into darkness.

I floated upward – right through the wall, beyond the rundown neighborhood, to drift weightless among the stars. The beauty of the universe was overwhelming, but peaceful and perfectly silent.

For a long time, I remained content to observe the starry expanse that stretched endlessly before me. The long journey to heaven could wait while I satisfied my curiosity about the universe. Many of the stars were lifeless, glowing rocks – from New York. But among them danced the living stars of Narnia, which were graceful beings caught up in an intricate pattern dictated by the will of Aslan.

I wanted to see the living stars up close, but curiosity gripped me. How were things down below? I had to find out.

Turning toward home, I dove into the atmosphere and broke through a white wall of clouds until I found myself hovering over Xavier's Institute. Even from the air, the mansion was every bit as impressive as it looked on the ground. I'd seen Xavier's from this aerial view only once before – wrapped in the warm security of Angel's arms.

A large gathering had congregated in the courtyard, halfway between the gray fountain and the Professor's garden. Fascinated, I drifted in for a closer look.

The mutants, dressed in blacks and grays, stood solemnly around a polished mahogany L-shaped box adorned with piles of red and white roses. It was a funeral. It dawned on me that the box was a magnificent coffin – a unique coffin specially designed for a centaur.

The Professor sat in his wheelchair, gravely addressing the crowd. He was likely delivering my eulogy, but I couldn't hear the words. Bethany and Alisha hugged each other, staring blankly at the flowery coffin. A glowering Logan Howlett had one hand half-tucked in his jeans pocket and the other wrapped around an amber bottle of beer. Alcohol was his way of dealing with pain, I remembered. Kurt Wagner stood to one side, his limp tail on the ground and his blue head hung low. Once in a while, he brushed a clawed hand over his face – as if he were crying.

My heart ached at the sight of my blue friend. It hurt to see him so sad, to know that his gentle soul mourned my departure. I would miss him dearly.

Then I looked around, searching for one more familiar person.

I glimpsed the dazzling white of his folded wings before I saw the rest of him. Unlike the mutants around him, he wore white. Hands clasped, he stood beside the Professor, and his morose expression seemed to reflect a distracted mood.

"Angel," I whispered.

His head jerked skyward, and I caught my breath when those blue eyes met mine. He could see me. No other mutants seemed aware of my presence – only Angel. Gradually his shock gave way to a wondrous smile, and without a glance at anyone else, he slowly spread his wings and gently lifted into the air.

My heart stopped when I realized that he was coming toward me.

I shifted backwards, overcome with shy nervousness – and that's when I noticed movement in the corner of my vision. Startled, I glanced over my shoulder to study the magnificent feathers sweeping softly behind me.

I gasped, delighted. _Wings. I have wings._

While the shape of my wings mirrored Angel's, mine weren't pure white. They were more delicate feathers, like dragonfly's wings glazed with translucent gold, and they shimmered in the sunlight.

"You came back," said a husky, masculine voice.

Startled, I whipped around and discovered Angel face to face with me. I could hardly breathe, but I managed a smile as his hands settled onto my shoulders.

"You're an angel," he breathed, gazing at me as if he'd never seen me before.

I chuckled softly, trembling in his grasp. "So it would appear," I stammered with a nervous smile.

He rubbed gently at my shoulders, searching into my eyes. I wondered what he was looking for.

"The wings are lovely, V."

I blushed and broke his gaze, staring at the gathering below instead. I struggled to appear calm and collected when, on the inside, every emotion I possessed was rioting – fearful and joyous at once. But I couldn't hide the heated rise of color in my cheeks.

"I'm glad you like them."

"I do." He moved closer to me, and I swallowed hard. "I like them very much. I like… _you_… very much."

My skittish gaze slid up to his. "You do? But I thought… after the things I said—"

His forefinger pressed into my lips, silencing whatever nonsense would have come forth. Shock raced down my spine. An intoxicating blend of fright and anticipation spiraled through me as Angel drew closer, and I could see all my long-lost hopes reflected in his fathomless blue eyes. His arms slid around my back, and even my trembling wings were paralyzed as he wrapped me into his embrace and pulled me against him. My hands fell onto his strong chest. My senses reeled.

"You're a fairy," he said to me in husky tones.

"No," I whispered faintly, mesmerized by the love in his eyes. "I'm… just a centaur."

A tiny smile tugged the corner of his mouth. "Not anymore."

I could hardly think straight. "Hmm?"

"The centaur you were before died." He nodded toward the courtyard, though his piercing blue eyes never left mine. "You're an angel now."

"I… find that… hard to believe."

He chuckled, and I smiled at his amusement with me. "You're a very difficult woman to convince, Violar. Are the wings not evidence enough for you?"

I flushed, dizzy and far too warm and wishing desperately that he'd end this torturous procrastination and just kiss me – kiss me with all the intense passion I sensed hovering only inches from my lips.

But the thought that he might kiss me was equally terrifying. I stalled for time – time to think, to gather my wits even as they slipped away.

"The, um… the wings are… a strong indicator," I answered shakily, "but… how would you recognize an angel… when you've confessed that you aren't one?"

Angel froze. I blinked, startled as I watched his face grow rigid. A muscle tightened in his jaw, the passion that had illuminated his eyes faded into a chilling coolness, and he regarded me with the polite detachment of a distant acquaintance.

His arms slipped away from me, and I stared at him in dawning horror. What had I said? What _had_ I said?

"You're right, of course." His flat, quiet tone was heavy with regret. "I am no angel."

"Neither am I," I amended hastily, holding my hand out to him in silent entreaty. "That's what I tried to tell you. I'm not an angel, Ange— Warren. I'm just a centaur… a centaur who seems to have sprouted wings, but that means nothing! It means nothing, Angel. Please…"

But Angel wasn't listening. His wings gently propelled him backwards as he folded his arms with a brooding expression. Drawing a deep breath, he glanced at the clouds above, then offered me a sad smile.

"I hear heaven is beautiful this time of year," he said. "Drop me a postcard, if you ever think of me."

He nodded once and turned away, sweeping his arms in the motion of a graceful swan dive as he swooped towards earth. Panic gripped me. He was leaving… it was my fault… and I threw myself after him.

"Angel, wait!"

I hurtled out of the sky and sat upright in bed, reaching for an Angel who wasn't there.

An Angel who wasn't real.

I closed my eyes and sank against my headboard with a groan. A dream. It had all been a dream. I was alive, and still breathing, and entirely wingless. That, in and of itself, was deeply unsettling. After being convinced by my wayward subconsciousness that I'd departed this world, finding myself in my own room left me shaken.

I slid out of bed, wrapped a fuzzy white robe over my pink nightgown, and went to the sink to splash my face. Then I stared at my dripping reflection in the mirror. My ordinarily bright silver eyes were dark gray and determined, but at least I didn't look like a living ghost. Not anymore. Not since that life-changing moment from two weeks ago, which had left me a different creature.

I searched my own predatory stare for a while, then sighed, shoving away from the sink counter and folding my arms. I wandered to the window, frowning thoughtfully.

I hardly recognized myself. Whatever I had become would surely scare Angel now far more than I'd scared him before. And that bothered me.

Angel had a sensitive soul – one of the gentlest, most fragile souls I'd ever encountered. Aslan only knew I'd never meant to hurt him. I'd been terrified, angry, abandoned and betrayed – but I'd never meant to hurt Angel. I bit my lip, scowling against the sudden urge to cry, and I looked up at the white-gray skies out the mansion window.

"He really is an angel," I murmured aloud. I leaned my forehead against the cold glass with a heavy sigh. Despite my dream-Angel's assertion to the contrary, I was anything but.

My fists tightened, and I pushed away from the window with sudden purpose. I had to do something. I needed to make things right. It wasn't possible, but—

A knock on my door interrupted my thoughts.

A visitor. I wasn't dressed for company!

I broke into a run across the bedroom and threw open my wardrobe doors, hollering towards the entryway. "Just a second!"

The muffled voice of Alisha coyly answered, "Take allllllll the time you like, Violar. Meanwhile, let me describe to you what I'm holding in my hands. It smells… mmm-mmm-mmm! So yummy. I have here a plate of eight freshly scrambled eggs with a little salt, a little pepper, a touch of garlic, and a sprinkling of shredded Pepper Jack cheese – just the way you like it. I have crispy strips of bacon right out of the pan, still sizzling hot, mixed in with spicy sausage links. I have cinnamon rolls—"

I almost tripped, stepping into my skirt. "Torturer, stop," I growled at the door.

Alisha stifled a giggle. "Sorry, can't hear you too well," she shouted through the door, her voice shaking with mirth. She tapped a nail on the door. "I said I have CINNAMON ROLLS with CREAM CHEESE FROSTING, GLAZED WITH—"

"Alisha!" I yelled back, tightening my belt with shaking fingers.

"—MELTED BUTTER!" she hollered even louder. "IT'S DRIPPING DOWN THE SIDES LIKE LITTLE BUTTERMILK WATERFALLS AND POOLING ON THE—"

A frustrated roar gathered in my throat as I dove for the hairbrush.

"—PLATE RIM, RIGHT INTO THE—" She broke off to smother an outrageous cackle. I raked the brush bristles through my hair, snarling at the tangles. "THE GOLDEN HASH BROWNS! A WHOOOOOOOLE MOUNTAIN OF HASH BROWNS, FRIED TO PERFECTION, LIGHTLY SEASONED WITH SEA SALT AND—"

I flung open the door, panting heavily and scowling at the Norwegian redhead. Alisha blinked and gulped at my sudden thunderous appearance, which had a satisfactorily unnerving effect on that wicked girl.

"Pepper," she finished.

I swallowed hard. If those too-eloquent descriptions hadn't been enough to get my mouth watering, the delicious aromas that hit me full in the face were. The intoxicating smell of warm cinnamon made me woozy.

Alisha recovered from her shock with remarkable swiftness. Her cheeks puffed, the corners of her green eyes crinkled, and I knew that – at any second – she would burst into fits of giggles. The tray wobbled.

My instincts flared. Breakfast was in danger!

I snatched the tray an instant before she lost it. "I'll take that, you fiend," I snarled above her wild laughter. "Shame on you, tormenting a helpless centaur first thing in the morning. Shut that door."

Somehow she managed to push the door closed, and she stumbled to the couch and collapsed on the cushions. "You should have seen your face!" Alisha shrieked between chortles. "You looked… so mad!"

"No kidding," I responded dryly, though none of the humor was lost on me. "I must have looked exactly the way I felt. Now pull yourself together, for goodness sakes, and let's eat before I pass out in the middle of that cinnamon roll."

Alisha laughed harder. She rocked back and forth, wiping tears from her eyes. "Violar!" she screeched.

I grinned, amused and furious. "What? You started it. Now come on, I'm hungry."

With Alisha temporarily incapacitated, I served up both plates by myself. I'd already made a significant divot in my food before Alisha stretched out one of her arms to an impossible length and patted my shoulder. I gulped down a mouthful of hash browns and tried not to cringe.

"You know, it's a little… unsettling when you do that, Elastica," I muttered, deliberately mentioning her codename.

Her arm sprang back to normal size. "Sorry," she declared, smiling as she picked up her plate. "It comes naturally."

"As do bizarre tendencies for us all."

Alisha smiled. "You're in a good mood today, Violar."

"Well, I was, right up until you pulled that stunt outside my apartment door," I pointed out.

She giggled. "You thought it was funny and you know it."

I smiled back at her. "Hilarious. Also, I've been intending to thank you for all the meals you've brought up here to share. You do know the way to a centaur's heart."

My own words echoed in my ears: _The way to a centaur's heart._

_I'm not the only one around here with an insatiable appetite._

A sudden idea flickered in my mind. My face must have shown it, because Alisha leaned forward intently and asked, "What is it, Vi?"

I bit my lip, then studied her creamy face. My heart hammered with a wild hope.

"Alisha," I addressed her breathlessly, "I… I need your help with something. Can you keep a secret?"

She closed an imaginary zipper over her lips. "Nary a word shall escape me," she said with an impish grin. Her classical Narnian phraseology was not lost on me, and I softened. She'd been listening closely to my speech patterns, it seemed, and she'd adopted them as her own. I deeply appreciated the brief reminder of my distant home.

"I'm grateful," I said. "I've been thinking, and I'd like to take you up on an impulsive offer you made a few weeks ago."

Alisha's emerald eyes lit up, and she set aside her plate, sitting forward eagerly on the couch. "Sure thing. What's it for?"

I drew an unsteady breath. "It's for Angel."

* * *

I paced from one wall in the lounge to the other, twisting my fingers together. I couldn't even pretend I wasn't nervous. My heart pounded and my pulse raced, and I felt myself shaking all over.

_This won't work. What was I thinking?_

And all because of a dream, too. I swallowed hard, listening hard for the sound of footsteps in the hall. That would be my signal to bolt.

_I can't do this._

I wasn't ready to face Angel. Moreover, I couldn't imagine Angel wanting to face me.

Abruptly I dusted off my skirt, fearing that stray particles of flour still clung to the material. It didn't, of course. Even after several hours of baking in the kitchen, I'd made sure my appearance was immaculate.

Or as close to immaculate as it could be. Swallowing hard, I smoothed my dark hair – and that's when I heard the approaching footsteps.

My shoulders tensed until I recognized Alisha's light step. She was alone.

"Hi, Vi." The Norwegian girl looked troubled as she stepped into the lounge.

My heart clenched. "Did it… not work?" I wondered breathlessly as she sat on the couch arm with folded arms and a frown.

"No, it did. I mean, he liked the cookies and said no one's ever made so many cookies for him in his whole life, not even his mom. He said chocolate chip is his favorite, and he tried one and liked it so much that his eyes rolled back and his wings fluttered in ecstasy. He thought they were from me, at first. But then…"

My throat tightened. "You told him?"

She nodded. "And he… for a second, Vi, I'm telling you." Her intense green eyes seized mine. "There was a spark. I saw it. I mentioned your name and he brightened, and then he… he stiffened up and turned into a human brick wall. I've never seen anyone do that, except for Colossus."

My shoulders drooped, and everything inside of me fell flat. I'd been foolish to hope for anything different. I'd just wanted… to apologize. Cookies were a poor gesture, compared with the damage I'd done with careless words. But what else could I do? Nothing in the world would make up for what I'd done to him.

With a deflated sigh, I trudged over to the couch and dropped into the cushions. "Do I even want to know what happened next?" I mumbled, staring out the window. My heart felt like an anvil in my chest.

A twinge of guilt rippled through my Danger Sense. "Yeah, kinda. I, um… Oh, Violar, you're gonna kill me."

I groaned and hid my face in my palm. "Luckily for you, I'm too upset to kill anything right now. Just tell me the worst and get it over with."

Alisha almost whimpered. "I didn't mean to make a mess of things – really, I didn't. I was going to do what you said and just go in there, give him the cookies, and tell him that you wanted to meet with him. But he… when he reacted like that to the cookies, I took things a little further."

I cautiously emerged from my hand. "What did you do, Alisha?"

She grimaced. "I told him that you'd like to have dinner with him."

I stared at her in horrified shock. "You _what?_"

She gulped and held up her hands. "Please, Vi, I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself. I don't think he read anything into it either. An invitation to dinner was over the top, I know, but—"

"By the mane, Alisha!" I shot to my feet, pacing back and forth in severe agitation. My heart pounded madly and my breath came short. I couldn't even look at the girl. This was worse than I'd thought! "Of all the brazen… A self-respecting Narnian woman would _never_ invite a man to dinner. If Thea finds out about this, do you know what she'll do? Never mind whether Angel read anything into it, Thea will – I promise you that!"

Alisha slid off the couch arm and backed a safe distance away. "She won't find out," she whispered. "Angel promised not to say anything. I made him promise before I asked him."

I stopped in my tracks, feeling a maelstrom of worry swirl through my stomach. "Alisha, this looks really bad. What Angel must think—"

"What Angel thinks," Alisha interrupted with sudden calm, though a wary light gleamed in her green eyes, "is that you would like a chance to apologize to him. Whatever else happens between you two is none of my business."

I bit the inside of my cheek and forced a glowering gaze onto the redheaded teenager. The odd expression on her face hinted at a sly, calculating nature just beneath the surface. I studied her in silence for a long moment. To my inward astonishment, Alisha didn't back down beneath my heated stare.

"I've underestimated you, Alisha Montrose," I remarked presently.

A slow grin curved over her lips. "I doubt it, but thanks anyway for the compliment."

I swallowed down my uneasiness and clasped my hands tightly. My voice cracked. "So… what did he say?"

Alisha's sly expression collapsed. "He said he'd think about it," she huffed, scowling. "I don't know what there is to think about. Why doesn't he just go out with you? Jeez."

My heart squeezed. "It's not that simple," I replied quietly, forcing my vain hopes back into their graves as I reminded Alisha – and myself – of a few important facts. "He doesn't love me. And he has a girlfriend."

"I wish he'd just dump her already," grumbled Alisha.

"Don't say that," I admonished with a heavy sigh. "He loves her. And I… I was horrible to him. Say what you like to exonerate me, Alisha, but that doesn't change the situation at hand. I hurt Angel." I turned away and paced to the window, watching a flock of pigeons scatter across the white-gray sky. "You weren't there, Alisha. I don't know if he could ever forgive me for the things I told him. I aimed well, and my words struck deep."

Depression made the gray world drearier, but that was my reality. And I had no one to blame but myself. The only reason Angel needed time to think was clearly to find a gracious way of excusing himself from the engagement.

Not that it would prove difficult. Angel kept busy – between his duties with the X-Men, his financial world and the stock market, and Thea. While I was certain that the pink-winged woman demanded the lion's share of Angel's time, I knew Angel slipped away occasionally to hide by himself. Who knew where he went or what he did. Most likely, he flew.

If my life were in shambles like his, and I had wings of my own, I'd have been flying. I still wished I could fly – to leave this madness behind, even if only for a little while.

I was suddenly jealous of Angel's wings. Again.

A small hand touched my shoulder. "Is it going to rain, Vi?"

I sighed. "I wouldn't know, Alisha. I have to smell the air before I can—"

Alisha moved around me and unlatched the windows, then pushed them open. "Well, go ahead and smell."

Wry amusement tugged a corner of my mouth upward, but I obediently leaned out the window and inhaled deeply. Cold, dry oxygen flooded my lungs.

"All clear," I replied. "The clouds are an empty threat, nothing more. Were you planning on taking a walk?"

"No, actually, I was kind of hoping that I… that we… that you and me could—"

"You and I," I corrected automatically out of habit. Then I winced and shot her an apologetic glance. "Sorry. You were saying?"

"Uh, I was hoping that _you and I_ could go down and tend the Professor's roses."

I frowned. "It's winter, Alisha."

"Oh yeah, right. You don't have to do anything with roses in the winter?"

"No. In the fall, you pile straw around the rosebushes to keep the roots from freezing. But Xavier's does have groundskeepers who winterized the gardens months ago. We need not worry about the roses until early spring."

"Ah, hmm." Alisha looked disappointed. "Well, do you want to go for a walk anyway?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Are you attempting to coerce me right out of the mansion, Alisha?"

She chuckled, then gazed directly at me. "Yeah. Is it working?"

I pursed my lips and sighed wistfully, and my gaze drifted out the window. The lure of fresh air and no walls pulled mightily at me.

"Fortunately for you, it is." Then I smiled at Alisha. "I'd be delighted to join you. Shall we go?"

Her face brightened. "Yup. Let me just close these." And she pulled the windows shut, flipping the latches into place.

Drawn out of my own tumultuous quagmire for a moment, I studied the girl. I had underestimated her, indeed.

"Alisha," I began softly. "I just wanted to… to thank you for all you've done: All your help with baking the cookies, for suggesting that you might more easily break the ice with Angel, and even for…" I bit my lip. "Even for doing your level best to… set us up. It isn't what I would have wished for," I added hastily, dodging her look of surprise, "but… I understand why you did it. And I'm grateful, regardless of what happens now."

She turned slowly to face me with a sympathetic look, and she reached out and squeezed my elbow. "You're welcome, Vi. I just hope I didn't ruin anything."

I shook my head. "There's no way to make things between us any worse than they are, Alisha," I assured her, dispirited by that truth. I shrugged. "That doesn't matter now. I only hope to repair some of the damage I caused."

"Well…" Alisha squeezed my elbow again with a warm smile. "I'm hoping for a great deal more than that."

I stared into her bright green eyes, then abruptly looked away. "Do me a favor and don't hope too much. I'd hate to see you disappointed." With that, I stepped away from the window, putting a firm end to the discussion. "Shall we go?"

"Ready when you are."

We left the lounge in silence.

* * *

Alisha was a clever girl, and I was constantly surprised by just how greatly I'd underestimated her. After a walk in the garden – which lasted far longer than necessary, due to a multitude of questions she'd fired at me regarding plants, plant care, plant winterization and what each plant looked like in the spring – Alisha had managed to drag me into the forest. And she repeated the routine, grilling me about the trees, landmarks, wayfinding, tracking, and woodland survival. I indulged her with growing amusement until amusement gave way to irritation.

"Enough," I said, rounding on Alisha in the middle of her discourse about counting rings on tree stumps. "It's late. Let's go home."

By then, twilight was upon us, and my stomach demanded food. Upon our return to the mansion, Alisha and I raided the refrigerator and came up with ingredients for sandwiches. Undaunted by my firm attitude, Alisha prattled cheerily about everything and nothing – and certainly nothing of import – while we ate. By the time I bid her goodnight and took the short hallway trip to my room, I was almost glad to be rid of her.

Then, when my dark thoughts intruded in the lonely quiet, I missed her.

Smothering a yawn, I unlocked my door and pushed it open. Just as I flicked on the lights, I caught a glimpse of something white near my right boot.

An envelope. In calm, professional handwriting, it was addressed simply: "Violar."

I crouched and picked up the envelope with a shaking hand, already guessing who it came from. I booted the door shut and made myself sit down on the couch before I withdrew a folded letter and began to read.

_Violar,_

_I accept your invitation. If it is convenient for you, meet me on the roof of Xavier's tomorrow evening at 7pm._

_Warren._

I reread the simple lines over and over again, studying the controlled businesslike handwriting. It betrayed nothing. My courage quaked and my breathing shuddered.

_Tomorrow evening._

I leaned back on the couch, staring at the patterned ceiling. Sleep would not visit me that night.


	38. I'll Be Seeing You

Alisha's squeal almost popped my eardrums.

"You could wear the olive and black gown I made you!" she screeched.

Grimacing, I rubbed my ears and sent a tired glance at my closet. The Norwegian teenager was in there somewhere, rifling through my hanging dresses.

"For the tenth time, I'm not going to dress up," I muttered, sinking onto the couch with a longsuffering sigh.

The hangers clattered, and Alisha's head poked into view, her curly red hair tousled by her fight with the gowns. "Why not?" she demanded.

"Because…" I sighed again. "It's not a date. I don't want to give Angel the wrong idea."

"Oh for crying out loud!" Alisha stomped out of my closet and stood before me, her hands plunked on her slender hips and a challenging scowl aimed at me. "Will you quit worrying about what Angel thinks? You are in so much denial over your feelings for him that—"

"Alisha." I cut her off with a cold, decisive tone and a grim look. "I don't deny my feelings for him. I deny his for me. He doesn't have any. I am not going to dress up and put him in a position where he feels obligated to me in any way."

Angry confusion swept over her face. "What do you mean by that?"

I glanced away. "When a girl dresses up for a man, he is expected to treat her a certain way."

"You mean, like a gentleman?" she shot back.

"Yes. In addition, he's supposed to compliment her and tell her she's beautiful."

"What's wrong with that?" Alisha interrupted. "Don't you want Angel to say he thinks you're beautiful?"

I bit my lip. "Just because I dressed up a little? No. Definitely not."

The girl rolled her green eyes and threw up her hands. "You make one simple date sound like a game of championship chess! Of all the—"

I stood off the couch, my jaw tight and my heart thumping. "Alisha, Angel owes me nothing. I owe him an apology – and my life. I haven't forgotten that. This isn't a date, it's an opportunity to correct a mistake I made weeks ago. That's all."

"And you haven't the slightest hope that it might turn into something more?"

My turn to scowl. I directed my glare at the floor and swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. "No."

"Liar."

My head came up, and I gave Alisha such a dangerous glare that she backed away. "Stop pushing the issue," I warned.

"Well," she retorted with a teenager's blithe audacity, sidestepping so that the couch stood between us. A wise move, I noted. "You're either lying to yourself or you're a coward."

My temper burned. I bared my teeth at her in an instinctive snarl. "Don't ever call me that again," I growled.

Alisha shrugged and folded her arms, staring at me expectantly.

I took a deep breath, willing my raw temper – and the rest of my frayed emotions – back into a semblance of calm. "You think I haven't considered the possibilities, Alisha? I have. But it's not fair to either Angel or his girlfriend to take advantage of this situation."

"I'm not asking you to take advantage of anything," argued Alisha, exasperated. "I'm just asking you to dress up a little."

"And I don't think it's a good idea."

"Don't you believe in being prepared for opportunities when they come your way?"

I rubbed tiredly at my left temple. "Alisha…"

She spun away, strode to the closet, and grabbed the olive and black gown she'd given me the first day we'd met. She swung the beautiful dress into the open and glowered at me over the sheer black material. "It's just a dress, Violar, and you know it won't change a thing between you and Angel. But for goodness sakes, at least dress up like you're glad to see him."

My gaze flicked to the dress, and I studied it for a long moment. I'd be more self-conscious in it. Then again, if I arrived on the roof to find that he'd set up something fancy, I'd feel dreadfully out of place in my ordinary white blouse and maroon skirt. I chewed at the inside of my cheek, then finally nodded.

"Just… don't get your hopes up," I advised calmly as I closed the distance between us, then took the dress.

Alisha grinned like a mischievous sprite and skipped out of my room.

* * *

Despite my sage advice to Alisha, I couldn't control the fluttering of my heart – or my runaway imagination. I swept up a fistful of olive-green skirt as I shakily ascended the last flight of stairs that led to a carved wooden door with a brass knob. Beyond that door, who knew what I would find? A large part of me wanted…

A table. A little table with a white table cloth – or perhaps champagne-colored, or gold – beneath the stars, set for two, complete with gold silk napkins folded to resemble swans perched upon the plates. I closed my eyes, envisioning two slender candles on either side of a vase. An empty vase.

Because the red rose I expected to find there was in Angel's hand.

I smiled at my daydream, watching as Angel started toward me. Maybe he wore a tunic of blue. Or, no, burgundy. And a white suit jacket specially altered to accommodate his wings.

Just as Angel stopped within reach of me, violin music began to play. I glanced to my right and saw a musician in a black tuxedo, wrenching beautiful melodies from the heart of his instrument.

I bit my lip as I surfaced into reality. Taking a deep breath for courage, I opened the door and stepped onto the flat roof.

No table. No musician. No Angel.

Nothing.

Of course, I'd been early by at least five minutes.

Swallowing down nervous disappointment, I looked around the roof. Stars shimmered overhead in a perfect evening sky, and my boots clopped softly across the stone. I could hear the whisper of wind through the shadowed trees and the silken brush of my skirt when I moved.

Then I heard the unmistakable rush of powerful wings swoop out of the sky behind me.

I spun around, and there he was – lightly crouched, his white wings flared to catch his fall. He tucked them against his back, straightened up, and came towards me.

My heart doubled in pace as I noted Angel's outfit: Navy blazer, white shirt, tan slacks. And black boots.

I took a step backwards as Angel approached. His blue eyes flashed in alarm and he abruptly stopped.

"Don't fall off," he warned.

I bit my lip and glanced behind me. The ledge was closer than I'd thought. Quickly I sidestepped to safety and twisted my hands together.

"My apologies," I mumbled, my eyes on the stones. So much for my daydreams.

Angel's chuckle held a decidedly nervous quality, and he swept a hand through his thick blond hair. "Nah, it's nothing. Ordinarily I don't give rooftops a second thought—" he fluttered his wings meaningfully "—but I've already had to catch you once before."

I grimaced without looking up. "I'm sorry for that too, Angel."

"Hey, Violar." The warmth in his voice soothed my soul – and unsettled it. His hand came over mine, and I shivered as my uncertain gaze rose to meet his blue eyes.

Tentatively, Angel smiled at me. "Let's not dwell on unpleasant things tonight, okay? We have the whole evening before us. There's no need to spoil it with guilt or regret or… anything else. What do you say?"

My heart ached. The words I'd spoken to him the afternoon he'd saved me from a burning house rankled inside of me like shards of glass. Pain tightened my features as I struggled for words.

"But I… I can't just—"

His warm hand touched my cheek, stealing my breath away.

"Shh. Not tonight." His hand dropped and gripped mine again. "Now come on."

Bewildered and vaguely frightened by Angel's smooth demeanor and accommodating mood, I followed his lead to the edge of the roof. "W-where are we going?" I stammered. "I thought—"

"Dinner?" He shot me a smile – a broad, dazzling smile that would've made any woman lightheaded. It had the same effect on me. "I would like to take you to dinner, unless you've developed a certain aversion to flying."

_Flying?_

My heart beat wildly. "Uh… no, no, not at all. Of course. I wasn't expecting…" I uttered a nervous laugh, caught between a polite smile and an incredulous frown. "I… I don't know what I was expecting." I bit my lip and stopped there.

"Then leave your expectations here," Angel invited, holding out his arms to me. "May I?"

Breathless and shaken, I nodded. Suddenly Angel swept me off my feet, and in a rush of wind that left me completely exhilarated, we were airborne.

I gripped his shoulders and looked down at the fast disappearing mansion. I spied Alisha leaning out her window, and she smiled and waved enthusiastically. My heart twisted up, even as I fluttered my fingers at her in return.

Her hopes on my behalf were a gift, but those hopes were too close to mine. And none of this was real. Not real in the way I wanted it to be.

"You're so tense," came Angel's sultry voice against my ear. He pulled me closer to his chest. "Relax a little, V."

I exhaled shakily and tried to force the stiffness from my muscles, but I was far too aware of how wonderful it felt to be in Angel's strong arms again.

"Better?" I asked tentatively.

He chuckled. "I guess that depends on what a centaur's idea of relaxing is."

I bit my lip and looked over the distant city lights sparkling across the jagged New York skyline. From the air, the view of skyscrapers and lights was spectacular.

_No, you wouldn't know that about me, Angel. You don't know much about me at all. You've never taken the time to find out._

_But things could have been different,_ another desperately hopeful part of me insisted. _If you hadn't hurt him… If you had opened up when you'd had the chance… If you hadn't pushed him away…_

I blinked back sudden tears at what might have been. No wonder I'd kept my thoughts sternly silent on the matter for so long. Caught between two painful arguments, my heart shredded.

"You okay, V?"

The way he said "V" melted me inside.

"Yes. I… I think it's the wind," I lied, blinking.

He chuckled. "That's understandable. My mutation enhanced my eyes to compensate for flight conditions, is what I was told. I never have that trouble when I'm flying, so I don't think about it. Just turn your face away if it gets to be too much for you."

I accepted the offer and rested my chin on his shoulder – hiding not from the wind, but from Angel. I didn't want him to see the turmoil inside of me. Not now, not when being this close to him reminded me of so many things… such as how easily he took care of a powerful, independent woman like myself.

A deep sigh escaped me, and for the first time since we'd taken to the air, I relaxed fully against Angel.

"I was beginning to wonder," Angel said with a smile in his voice, "if centaurs knew how to relax."

I almost smiled, but it would've been too painful. A soft moan caught in my throat – a sound I hoped would pass for amusement.

My Danger Sense tightened, and I felt Angel's hands twitch against my knees and my ribs. "I hope I haven't offended you," he added, trying to see my face.

I kept my face out of his sight and silently cleared my throat. "You haven't."

An awkward silence fell between us, but Angel didn't allow it to last long.

"Stupid of me. Of all people, I should know better than to come off as an elitist. I've lived under racial stigmas and stereotypical labels all my life. You know, V, the next time I start talking like that, just slap me and be done with it."

A jolt of shock ran through my body, and I glanced up at him. But instead of meeting his eyes, as I'd hoped to do, I was suddenly mesmerized by the way the moonlight turned his golden wind-whipped hair into blue fire.

"I-I'd never do such a thing," I managed, struggling to keep my thoughts on track. Angel had a devastating impact on my ability to think straight. I dragged my gaze from his moonlit hair to his shadowed, handsome face.

He chuckled. "A slap is nothing. I do have a healing factor, you know."

"I'm well aware," I replied quietly, remembering the wondrous way he'd looked at me after he'd saved my life with his own blood. "And I'm grateful for that. But your healing blood can't erase scars from your heart."

The moment I said it, I wished I hadn't. My Danger Sense twisted painfully. I bit my lip and glanced away, only to be captivated by the sight of his pure white wings glistening like icy blue snow, strong and graceful in their movements; adjusting to the air currents and occasionally sweeping back and forth.

My throat constricted, and I hesitantly ducked my face against his shoulder. "I'm sorry," I whispered, mortified.

My Danger Sense eased, replaced with a sense of wistful regret. "Don't mention it," he replied, his hand gently caressing my ribs in what was no doubt meant to be a comforting gesture. My stomach fluttered, and I offered no protest. "You're right, of course. I just hate it when I start to sound like my— like people who have issues with mutants."

He'd swerved around a mention of his father, I was certain. I pursed my lips and pressed my hand against his shoulder – a returned gesture of comfort. My Danger Sense warmed at the touch, and I closed my eyes, savoring the moment.

"It's alright to be outspoken," I assured him quietly. "It's alright to say what you feel, even at the risk of… of saying something that makes it appear that you have a wrong mindset. Maybe it is only a semblance of a wrong mindset; maybe it _is_ a wrong mindset. You'll never know unless you face who you really are, honestly and without pretense, and sort through your thoughts and feelings. None of us are perfect, Angel. There will be thoughts and feelings that you'll have to get rid of. That can't be helped, but it's a good process to embrace."

His hand paused on my ribs for a long moment.

"You're very wise, V," he said at length.

Ever so slightly, I shook my head in silent disagreement. _If only you knew._

"Thanks," I mumbled aloud. "It's a lesson I've had to learn the hard way."

"Mm." His hand resumed its slow, soothing motion along my side. "Well, if I can take your advice, it will be one less lesson for me to learn the hard way." He chuckled dryly at himself, then wheeled through the sky and swooped toward a tall building. "Speaking of looking at myself for who I am, I can't let just anyone see me like this. So I thought we'd stop in at my office and pick up a coat. I collect them and keep them on hand for special occasions such as this."

Before I could utter a response, Angel flared his wings and dropped lightly onto a balcony. I lifted my head from his shoulder to look around, and I found the street a dizzying height far below our perch.

Angel didn't put me down immediately, I noticed. He carried me to the sliding glass doors, then set me carefully on my feet.

"It's old-fashioned walking from here on out," he said with another dashing smile. Then he pulled the wallet from his back pocket, slipped out a card, swiped it through a little box on the wall, and easily pushed the door open. He stepped back and swept his arm invitingly toward the dark office. "After you."

Clasping my hands nervously, I stepped into the dark interior – which illuminated with indirect lighting almost immediately when Angel flipped a switch on the wall. He shut the door behind us, and I was suddenly aware of the artificial heat in the well-kept office. I hadn't been cold until that moment.

I rubbed my arms as I looked around. The place was decorated with elegant furnishings of mahogany and gold. The bookcases on the walls contained numerous fine books along with a handful of mementos: A ship in a large glass bottle, a carved wooden plaque with a fearsome eagle about to seize the word "freedom" with its talons, a small collection of ancient coins displayed against black velvet in a glass case, a golden horsehead that Angel was using as a bookend. I wandered past the bookcases to a wall with two paintings hung side by side, lit by some unseen source that gave them the surreal illusion of dream scenes emerging into reality.

The first painting was of a quaint French café, looking towards the Eiffel Tower in a rose-colored sunset. The painter had captured the breezes that fluttered the green outdoor canopies and the cream tablecloths. The scene felt lonely, save for a perfectly-coiffed dark-haired woman in a gray dress sitting at the table by herself, staring at the distant Eiffel Tower. An untouched glass of wine and a wilted red rose sat near her hand. She looked as if she were waiting for someone who would never come.

My heart ached, and I turned aside.

The second painting depicted a stately couple – a man dressed in a black tuxedo, the brunette woman in a fine red gown – dancing on a beach beneath a bright and stormy sky, their faces turned away. On one side of them stood a butler holding a black umbrella over the couple's heads. On the other side, an older woman with a black dress and a white apron – a maid, most likely – held another umbrella to shelter the dancers.

"Jack Vettriano," murmured Angel, coming up behind me.

I tore my gaze from the painting to glance at Angel. "Is he the man dancing here?"

That made Angel laugh. "No, Vettriano is the painter. This one is particularly famous, entitled 'The Singing Butler'."

I studied the hired man, clearly a butler, who held the umbrella. "He doesn't look like he's singing."

Angel chuckled again. "He isn't. Nobody is entirely sure why Vettriano titled this painting about a singing butler when the butler is merely holding an umbrella. Perhaps it sounds a bit more refined than, 'The Umbrella-Bearing Butler.'"

I laughed – and it felt good to laugh. With a smile at Angel, I leaned close to the painting once more.

"Why did you choose this painting for your office?" I wondered.

"_One_ of my offices," Angel corrected. "I have several. My art collection is quite extensive. But I chose The Singing Butler for this office because… it reminded me of someone."

I quirked an eyebrow and looked at Angel over my shoulder. "Oh?"

Angel suddenly looked shy. He smiled, avoiding my eyes, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of a long cream-colored trench coat.

"While I lived in San Francisco, I dated a woman named Seraphin. I met her at a Christmas party. She was French, and her name was related to 'seraphim' – angels, which I thought ironic. So did she. Anyway, Seraphin was a classical violinist with remarkable talent, and she loved classical art and the opera. We toured several museums during a trip to Paris. This painting was one she pointed out to me, among others. I think she'd forgotten," Angel continued as I slowly turned to face him, "but upon our return to San Francisco, I hadn't. I arranged for her to meet me on the California coast, wearing a red dress just like this one. I hired a butler, a maid, and a photographer. Seraphin was so surprised…"

A wistful smile touched Angel's lips, and his blue eyes grew distant. "I'd recreated the scene from Vettriano's painting, only with angels. That's what I told her. I had the photos printed and framed, and the similarities to Vettriano's original were remarkable – right down to the stormy gray and pale orange afternoon, just like this. The wet sand glowed in the muted sunlight, and my wings… well." Angel shrugged and broke off.

Simultaneous pangs of sympathy and a lesser form of jealousy rippled through me. My heart squeezed at yet another reminder of how generous and romantic Angel could be. "Sounds very beautiful, Angel. So what happened to her?"

Angel's face fell, and a muscle tightened along his jaw. "Seraphin said I didn't spend enough time with her. She was probably right. I'd been wrapped up in business, trying to keep my father happy – and playing superhero by night. We broke up. Last I heard, she'd gone back to Paris for good."

That made me angry. Angel had told me of only one incident where he'd created a very special scene – one right out of a painting – for a woman he loved, and that she'd accuse him of not spending enough time with her pierced me deeply. How could anyone hurt him so?

I bit my lip and glanced at the first painting with the lonely woman at the French café. "Does this one have a story, too?"

Angel shook his head. "No. I don't even know who painted it – someone obscure, I'm sure. But it reminded me of her. Or maybe it reminded me of how I pictured her after she moved to Paris."

I nodded, saddened by another of Angel's lost loves, and my gaze drifted back to the painting called The Singing Butler. "Do you still have the picture – the one of you and Seraphin?"

"It hangs in another of my offices. Well," he said abruptly, "enough about the past. What matters is tonight." He held out his arm to me. "Shall we go?"

"Oh, certainly," I replied as I slipped my hand into the curve of his elbow. My stomach fluttered at the way he'd phrased his invitation: _What matters is tonight._

I was afraid to dwell on that overmuch, or to give Angel the impression that I was reading too much into his words. Just to make conversation, I added, "I _am_ a little hungry. Centaurs have fast metabolisms."

He chuckled and gave me that heart-melting smile. "I remember that detail about you very well, V. I mean, Violar. Do you mind if I call you V?"

"Not at all," I replied with forced calm, though it was all I could do to keep breathing. A nickname? And a remembered detail about me?

_Is it possible…?_

Angel smiled. His blue eyes were very warm in the semidarkness. "I must tell you about V. 'Remember, remember, the fifth of November,'" Angel intoned. "In a parallel universe, where World War II had a very different outcome, V fights against the communist government that has enslaved the world."

I blinked, a little bewildered. The comparison between myself and this mysterious hero V seemed to be a compliment, though I knew nothing about him. And Angel's choice of nicknames for me came as a surprise, once he'd explained the origins. It left me confused. But vaguely – cautiously – flattered.

"It's an honor," I said finally. "I like the abbreviation very much."

Angel looked pleased. "So do I, V. Now," he went on, leading me to the door, "we'll take the elevator to the ground floor, and the restaurant is only a block away. We can take a cab."

"I don't mind walking," I offered.

He smiled. "I hoped you'd say that. Do you like Italian?"

"I think so. I've had very little of it," I replied, glancing around the office as Angel paused to unlock the door. My gaze fell on a brown leather chair, and a bright flash of color caught my eye. On the floor, nearly hidden beneath the chair, was a fluorescent pink feather.

My heart dropped like an iron weight in my chest and crushed my feelings – and my hopes – with painful force. _Thea._

She'd been here. That didn't surprise me, of course – she was Angel's girlfriend, and most likely he'd taken her on a tour of _all_ his offices. Which Angel hadn't done for me. Granted, I'd never expressed an interest in seeing all his offices, but I hadn't known about their existence until tonight.

My gaze darted to the paintings on the wall. Had Angel shared with her the story of Seraphin? What other windows had he offered Thea into the depths of his life?

The door came open. At a gentle tug on my arm, I followed Angel into a spacious hallway without quite being aware that I was moving. My boots, and Angel's, echoed on the polished gold-flecked marble tile. Faint artificial scents tingled in my nostrils. As if from far away, I heard Angel close the door and lock it, but I wasn't paying attention.

Alisha had been right. I did harbor secret hopes in regards to Angel's feelings for me. Which is why it hurt so much when I realized… that I wasn't special.

"Violar?"

My head came up. "Hmm?"

"You zoned out there for a second. Are you really in the mood for Italian? Because we have a lot of options. This is New York City, after all. I can take you anywhere you want to go."

A shadow fell over my heart. _No, you can't._

"It doesn't matter," I muttered. When Angel looked at me in curious concern, I hastily amended, "I just mean that I… I could eat anything, and I don't know much about New York cuisine. You can… we can go anywhere you like. I'm certain this Italian place you speak of will be excellent."

Angel relaxed again, and I breathed an inward sigh of relief that I'd fooled him – even as my heart wrenched. We made our way down the hall.

"This restaurant is just very close," explained Angel with a smile. "I frequent it often, as I'm very fond of their sirloin steak and linguine. They make it with a special cream wine sauce and…"

I tuned him out, studying the fine wooden paneling on the walls and the elaborate cornice work. He frequented the restaurant often, he said. With Thea? How many other women had he taken to this restaurant? Now he was taking me there – but why?

"V, you okay?"

We'd stopped at the elevator doors, I realized. Drawing a deep breath, I faced Angel with a little nod.

"Yes."

The silver doors parted with a delicate chime, and I was saved from any further butchery of truth. The doors closed again, and with a warm hum, the elevator descended with a powerful sense of security that I hadn't experienced in the Marriott's elevator.

"You have claustrophobia, right?"

I looked blankly at Angel for several long moments. Then, slowly, I understood the question he'd asked me in plain English.

"Oh… yes, I am. I'd forgotten I mentioned it."

"Does this elevator bother you?"

I looked into Angel's blue eyes. _The mysterious, enigmatic, impossible puzzle of a man inside it does._

I snapped out of my dismal thoughts. "Um… no, no. It's fine, really. Only if I'm kept in a small space for a long period of time do I have any kind of reaction. It's usually mild – just a mild sense of discomfort, unless I feel trapped."

"Interesting," remarked Angel. I sensed him take a step closer to me, but I broke his gaze and looked away, heartsick.

The elevator chimed softly, and the doors opened to the ground floor. After a long walk across the ornate lobby – I had a vague memory of tile floors, impressive architecture and curved, custom desks – we pushed open the glass doors and descended a long flight of stone steps. I studied the dim nighttime reflection of Angel and myself in the tall glass windows of the buildings we passed. Even the reflection wavered with a dreamlike quality, as though it too considered the image of us, together, to be nothing more than a dark mirage.

My breath rose in steam clouds, and I shivered against Angel's arm.

He looked at me in concern. "I should have thought to offer you a coat, V. Are you cold?"

I shook my head. "Centaurs are used to cooler temperatures," I answered quietly.

He chuckled. "One of the greatest drawbacks of my mutation is that I'm incapable of offering a beautiful woman my coat."

I stopped in my tracks. I'd had all I could take.

"Angel…" I sighed harshly.

He turned to face me, worried and a little alarmed. "Are you feeling well, Violar?"

Slowly, I shook my head. "No. No, I'm not. I don't think I'm hungry."

His eyebrows jumped. "Uh, really? Because just a little while ago, you said—"

"How's Thea?" I interrupted suddenly, looking directly into his eyes.

Angel dodged my stare and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Fine, I guess. She went on a trip to who knows where and she'll be back who knows when. Why?"

That news unsettled me further. "Does she know you're taking me out to dinner?"

Angel retreated a step, looking at me quizzically. And warily. "Probably not, since I didn't tell her. Does that bother you?"

"Frankly? It does." I was surprised at my sharp tone, and I forcefully gentled it. "I don't want to cause any trouble."

Angel chuckled and shrugged that off. "She knows you're just a friend."

_Yes, but I don't know that, and that's the problem._

"Last I heard, Thea threw a fit about any woman you got a little too close to. Has that changed?"

"No, but like I said, I have a healing factor. If she decides to tear out my feathers, it won't cause any permanent damage."

I stared at him in horror. "She wouldn't do that to you, would she?"

He gave a mild chuckle – and, I thought, grimaced. "She already did, more than once. But after the feathers grew back, I could fly without any problem. No harm done. Don't worry about it."

My breath came out in a shocked whimper. My senses reeled, and I stumbled backwards.

"Don't fall in the street, V!" warned Angel.

I spun on my heel at the last second and turned my back on Angel. I began to walk away, dazed.

"V! V, wait up! What's wrong?"

I heard running footsteps behind me, and I slowed down as Angel caught up. It was all I could do to keep from crying.

"V! V, talk to me." His gentle hands grasped my upper arms. "You can tell me anything."

I bit my lip, and the concrete beneath our feet blurred. _No, I can't. I can't._

A sniffle escaped my defenses. Then another.

"Hey, don't cry," murmured Angel, drawing me closer. My body remained stiff and tense in his hug, though I lowered my forehead lightly to his chest. I would surrender no more than that. I couldn't.

"I'm fine," I said quietly, lifting my head again. I took a deep breath – at least to give myself a sense of composure.

"What's the matter, Violar?" wondered Angel in a low tone.

I shook my head – not wanting to tell him. But instinct warned me that Angel wouldn't quit prying until I told him something plausible. "I've been through a lot lately, and I've caused a lot of people undue anxiety and pain. You were one of them, Angel. I just wanted… only wanted to apologize to you tonight, and to thank you for saving my life. I'm grateful for that… truly, I am…"

I lost my voice. Sympathy from Angel poured into my Danger Sense, which rankled my pride. I didn't want his sympathy. I didn't need it. Before he could say anything, I forced down another lungful of air and looked up at him with tearful determination.

"You may have a healing factor, Angel, but I don't. You might be able to take the pain, but I can't handle the pain of knowing that I caused you to get hurt."

"Now, Violar," chided Angel, looking as if his own pride had been needled. "Let me be the one to judge the risk and make my own decisions."

I shook my head and backed out of his embrace, lifting my chin still higher. "As they say in this world, it takes two to tango. Count me out."

We stood across from each other for what seemed an eternity, separated by a few feet – and a chasm much wider than that. Angel was ill at ease, and I was miserable. But it was a feeling I'd grown accustomed to. I accepted misery – because I had no choice. I hadn't been _given_ the choice.

Sudden anger flared inside of me, and I clenched my teeth to hold it back. Angel hadn't given me a choice, yet it wasn't his fault. I refused to blame Angel for not giving me that chance, or to punish him unjustly. Left without an outlet, my useless anger boiled restlessly inside of me.

Angel sighed, sounding tired. "V…"

"I don't want to argue about this," I quietly interrupted him, smoothing wrinkles from my black and green skirt. "You don't owe me anything, Angel. Not even dinner tonight."

"It's no trouble," Angel broke in with a smile that was both incredulous and a little miffed. "I'm hardly broke."

I lifted a hand in a placating gesture. "Please don't take my refusal as an insult, Angel. I certainly don't intend to insult you – and my culture is well aware that turning down a gift can be insulting. I just… feel like I've done too much to hurt you already."

The irritation inside of Angel drained away. "Not that I didn't deserve it."

"For saving my life, hardly. Nothing could be further from the truth. You risked… so much… to pull me out of that fire. You didn't have to do that for me. As I said, you don't owe me anything."

He shrugged, but a raw quality edged his voice. "I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost you, Violar. You're my friend."

I looked up at him, aware that my eyes were glistening. _You're so much more than that to me, Angel._

My heart crumbled as I swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you," I whispered.

"Don't mention it."

I offered him a little smile, which he hesitantly returned. Then I breathed a little sigh of mingled relief and disappointment. Although Angel and I were on steadier ground, despite the things I'd done, the night hadn't turned out like I'd hoped.

Then again, my hopes were impossible. Angel had a girlfriend and a baby on the way. He had responsibilities and a life that didn't include me. My hopes weren't meant for reality.

If only I could tell my hopes that. If only I'd known how to stop hoping permanently. Perhaps dreams were like the White Witch's _Turkish Delight;_ one taste of it, and one would forever want it.

The noise of a city at night – distant traffic engines, a horn honking, a dog barking, hushed conversation from a few people on the other side of the street, and chaotic music coming from Aslan only knew where – surfaced in the silence that stretched between myself and Angel. I smiled regretfully.

"Well, I guess I'd better be going," I murmured. "Thank you for everything, Angel."

I backed away, then turned and walked down the sidewalk.

"Hey, Violar."

I paused and looked back. Angel was coming after me, his hands in the pockets of his cream-colored trench coat. He looked very much like a gentleman and a guardian angel, I thought – just the way a guardian angel would look if he were disguised as an ordinary man.

"Would you like me to walk you home?" he asked as he came up.

I shook my head. "No, that isn't necessary. I walk home alone all the time."

He smiled. "You don't have to be alone tonight."

I bit my lip and glanced away. After all the rationalizing I'd just put myself through, a few simple words from Angel could leave my resolves and my logic in ruins. I lowered my head, stubbornly unwilling to admit defeat. It felt too dangerous.

"I think I would rather be alone. But thank you for the offer."

"You sure? It's no trouble – walking _or_ flying."

I gulped. That was harder to resist.

"I'm sure, Angel. Thank you again."

"Will you at least allow me to pay for a cab?"

I looked up at him with a sigh and shook my head. "You don't owe me anything, Angel."

He stepped toward me, and I could feel his will override mine before he spoke.

"Please. I insist. None of this nonsense about debts, I just don't like leaving a woman to walk in the city alone, especially at night. Especially not when I can do something about it."

I'd barely nodded my consent before he flagged down a yellow taxi. He opened the door for me, and just that simple caring gesture made me feel warm, protected… and utterly desolate. I stepped up to the open door, and I paused long enough to give Angel a sideways hug.

"Thank you," I whispered.

I felt his arm around my shoulders and his cheek against my temple. "Anything for a friend, V."

I managed a smile, then slipped into the cab. Angel put his hand through the window and handed the driver what looked like a hundred-dollar bill. "Take the lady to Xavier's Institute on Graymalkin Lane."

The driver stared at the money, then tucked it away. He spoke with a gruff New York accent. "You got it."

Angel leaned on the sill of my open window next. "You sure you're alright, V?"

I nodded. On impulse, I reached over and touched his hand. "I am, Angel. Thank you."

"And we're okay?"

I smiled. "More than okay," I assured him.

He hesitated. "You know, I've often thought about your offer to visit…" He glanced at the driver, who pretended not to listen. "To visit your homeland. If it's not too much trouble, may I still take you up on that this summer?"

Surprised, I gazed at Angel. "Of… of course," I stammered as my heart picked up its pace. I stomped it down fiercely as I added, "If you can guarantee me that Thea won't be angry enough to harm you in some way, physically or emotionally – temporary or otherwise."

Angel's face fell, but he leaned down to kiss my forehead. A knot lodged in my throat. I so wanted to kiss him in return… just a kiss on the cheek. But I didn't dare. Surely Angel would feel what I'd kept hidden in my heart if I so much as kissed his cheek.

"You're a good friend, V. Don't worry about me so much."

"Please," I whispered.

In my Danger Sense, I felt him relent. "I'll talk to her."

I squeezed his hand and nodded, unable to answer. I offered him a warm smile and held up my hand in a soft wave as he retreated through the window, and the cab pulled away from the curb. Angel stood there with his hands in his coat pockets, watching me leave, and I gazed at him through the back window until the cab turned a corner.

With a sigh, I sat back in the seat and wrinkled my nose at the ancient myriad of smells of the cab. I had to remember that Aslan gave centaurs excellent noses for survival purposes in the wilds of Narnia, and I was grateful for that. But here in New York, it wasn't always advantageous to have an enhanced sense of smell.

I kept my mind on trivial things until the cab brought me to the gates of Xavier's. I thanked the driver, keyed the code into the box, and watched the black gates creak open. Only when I stood in my room once more did reality collapse on me with painful force.

I left the lights off and sank into the couch by the window, staring down at the moonlit courtyard. Angel hadn't asked to accompany me home for my sake only. He hadn't wanted to be alone tonight, either.

I'd refused because I wasn't merely a friend to Angel. Whether he considered me more than a friend or not, my feelings alone were too dangerous. Angry as I was with Thea's domineering and disrespectful nature towards Angel, I had no intention of wronging her – particularly since she was the mother-to-be of Angel's child.

I bit my lip, then closed my eyes. What a disaster. My hopes were not only out of reach, they'd been completely destroyed. I'd slipped through a narrow wrinkle in time with St. John, which had exploded in my face. But with Angel, I'd stood before the very gates of heaven, flung wide to me – and I hadn't moved as they swung shut with terrifying swiftness. Now heaven's gates were closed and locked. And I remained standing there on the outside, wishing for a way to go back in time.

I thought of the painting in Angel's office, the one with the dark-haired woman sitting alone at the Parisian café. That woman was me. Maybe I wasn't meant for Happily Ever After.

In the wake of all that had transpired with Angel and St. John, and after discovering that my heart was still lost to Angel, I had little choice but to believe that.

I'd accepted the thought of being alone a long time ago. When I'd grown up outside the Council Ring and had never met another centaur whom I'd seriously considered for a lifemate, I'd accepted that. I'd pursued my own life. I buried my dreams. And I'd been content.

Until I'd crossed the border into New York and looked into the blue eyes of Angel.

Now the thought of spending forever at that Parisian café was almost too painful to bear… because I'd had a glimpse of heaven. Life would never be the same.


	39. A New Leader

With morning came a renewed sense of determination and purpose.

Gold sunshine poured through the windows when I arose. I pulled open the silky curtains and studied the pale sky, looking for a delicate haze that had nothing to do with New York City pollution.

And I found it. I gazed at the bright peach-colored skyline with a cauldron of wistful emotion brimming inside of me.

"Welcome back, spring," I murmured, my throat tightening. "For once, I… I've missed you. It's been a long winter."

Letting the curtains fall from my hand, I turned away and dressed in a white blouse, a burgundy skirt, and my black boots. After a quick breakfast of ham and croissants accompanied by mint tea, I brushed my dark hair, staring down my reflection in the mirror.

"The past has passed," I said aloud, squaring my shoulders. "Life goes on. Starting right now."

I quickly tied my hair into a high ponytail, then flipped it under to create a smooth, elegant hairstyle. I often wore my hair loose – I was a wilderness centaur, after all – but my plans for the day required a bit more deliberate perfection.

I exited my room, locked the door, and strode down the hall with one particular destination in mind.

I had been at Xavier's Institute long enough to know where most of the mutants could be found on any given day. Hank McCoy was often buried in his lab, either reading or mixing bubbling, steaming flasks of colorful chemical compounds. Logan Howlett haunted the Danger Room when he wanted a fight and the lounge to drink beer after he finished. When Professor Xavier wasn't in one of the classrooms delivering lectures to a group of students, he was almost always in his office, buried in paperwork or dealing with some political affair involving mutants - for which I both deeply respected and pitied him. The Professor was tireless in his pursuit of creating a better world for all mutants; he just needed to be rescued and whisked away on occasion.

Only now, he no longer needed rescuing. He was in Paris, spending his final weeks in solitude and hard-earned rest.

I hastily pushed aside the melancholy and refocused on the present.

The garage was Scott Summers' domain.

Summer in New York was hot - too hot for a centaur, even though I stayed in my humanoid form as much as possible during the mid-year months. I avoided close, sealed spaces completely. Including the garage.

I'd only been in the garage twice, in fact – once when Tessa Niles had introduced me to cars, and once when James Bond had taken me in his sleek black car for a night on the town – a night I'd rather have forgotten.

As I stepped into the large, stifling garage, I wondered how anyone - including Scott - could stand it. Even now, with the weather just turning to early spring, I felt uncomfortable. Powerful odors of gasoline, warm metal, a hint of dampness and mold, and chemicals I couldn't identify permeated the suffocating air. I wrinkled my nose and coughed softly. It was difficult to breathe.

Loud music blared from a grungy-sounding radio on the far side of the garage. Spanish-styled electric guitar notes crooned over an infectiously danceable hard rock accompaniment. After a moment, I recognized the lyrics.

_Man it's a hot one,_

_Like seven inches from the midday sun,_

_I hear you whisper and the words melt everyone,_

_But you stay so cool…_

Santana's _Smooth. _Apparently even the radio stations had noticed the change in the air.

"Ah... Scott? Scott Summers?" I called over the noise.

There was no answer.

I willed myself forward, venturing deeper into the dimly-lit garage - though my claustrophobia was already beginning to rebel. I brushed a thick lock of dark hair off my neck as my black boots clipped across the concrete, and I moved past several parked cars and Logan's motorcycle.

"Scott?" I called. "Mr. Summers, are you in here?"

I spotted the source of the music: A black box sitting on the concrete only a few feet from a red car. Suddenly a silver wrench flew out and creamed the radio. Blessed silence filled the garage.

"Over here, under the red Mustang," came a voice.

Hesitantly, I approached the shiny red car. On the passenger side, I found a pair of jean-clad legs on the ground, sticking out from beneath the car.

I grimaced. Those poor jeans looked like they'd been through a war and barely survived. The knees were ripped and threadbare, the hems were shredded, white-rimmed holes pockmarked the thighs, and dark stains distorted the original color – which I guessed had been a medium blue.

Before I could utter a word, the legs moved. A man wearing dark sunglasses and a dirty white tanktop shoved himself into the open and sat up, grabbed a greasy towel, and wiped his sweaty face with it. Every swipe of the towel left ugly black smudges on his skin. I watched him in dawning horror.

Scott looked up at me over the towel. "What can I do for you?"

I gulped, feeling sick. "That… that towel isn't very clean," I said quietly.

He grinned. "Neither is my face."

I chuckled sheepishly and clasped my hands. He did have a point. I glanced at the vehicle, wondering why Scott had referred to it as a Mustang. As far as my studies had taught me, mustangs were horses descended from Spanish stock shipped to America by early explorers and soldiers. The mustang horses now ran wild across North America, though I'd yet to see one in New York.

"You like my car?"

My gaze darted back to the man sitting on the dirty garage floor. He certainly seemed comfortable with grease.

"Oh, yes. It's very nice." And it was shiny enough that I could see my warped reflection in the polished red surface.

Scott grinned, obviously pleased. "You came all the way down here just to admire the Mustang? Not that you'd be the first."

Tearing my attention away from the car, I gave myself a solid mental shake. "Oh, I just... well I wanted to meet you, actually, since I haven't already. But I hope I wasn't interrupting you," I added with a furtive glance at the car. I brought a quizzical gaze back to Scott.

"Not at all." He climbed to his feet, and I automatically took a step backwards – knowing, even before the strong odors of sweat and grease assailed my sensitive nose, that Scott Summers needed a shower. "I fear I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you, either. Have you been at the Institute long?"

Introductions from the beginning were clearly in order. "My name is Violar. I'm a new student here... well, fairly new," I amended. "I've been here for a few months now. And I've heard a lot about you. But I've been very busy with classes and a new job, and... and other things, so I haven't made a point to introduce myself... regrettably... until now. The Professor said he handed the reins of the school over to you."

He gave me a lopsided grin. The way his white teeth gleamed against his grease-blackened face reminded me of Kurt Wagner's extraordinarily bright smile.

"That he did, Violar." Without bothering to brush himself off – it'd have been pointless anyway – he wandered to a table in the corner and picked up a plastic water bottle. He gulped down half the liquid before he lowered the bottle and spoke again. "Nice to meet you, officially. Charles spoke pretty highly of you."

Warmth and a little ache burned in my broken heart. "Coming from the Professor, that's a wonderful compliment," I answered quietly. "I think the world of him."

Beneath the dark sunglasses, Scott's greasy features grew sober. "As do I, Violar."

I started and stared at him. Before he could say more, a short, balding man with a clipboard entered the garage and waved to Scott.

"Hey Scott! About those new things you want installed in all the rooms: how did you wanna go about that?"

After a brief nod of greeting to the shiny-headed stranger, I pivoted to watch Scott in a somewhat curious, somber way. There were a great many questions I had about him, and how he'd measure up as a leader – not that I doubted the Professor's choice. I merely wondered what sort of person he was. Every new leader brought new things to the table, and a new style of leadership, while carrying on the legacy of their former leaders and teachers.

"And Ted," Scott tacked on to whatever orders I'd missed hearing, "get me those wall supplies down here by tomorrow. I want this new wall up before we get any more bad weather."

The balding fellow – Ted – nodded. "Gotcha." He disappeared.

Beckoning me to follow, Scott led the way back to the mansion. I avoided walking directly behind him: My nose complained far too much about Scott's signature aromas. Kurt Wagner's brimstone scent was easier to tolerate.

Yet Scott seemed entirely unaware of it.

He led me through the kitchen, into the lounge, past the library, and then up the stairs and into his office. It was a plain office, sparsely furnished with a light-colored wooden desk, three black leather chairs, light gray carpet, and two bookcases that matched the desk.

Despite the lack of dust on the immaculately clean shelves, the bookcases were mostly empty. The few books Scott possessed were of little interest to me: Car mechanic how-to guides, thick volumes on airplanes, and dictionaries on various types of guns, bullets, and modern weaponry. I grimaced. No wonder he didn't have many books.

The walls were plain, save a remarkably realistic mural that took up the entire left side of the room. It depicted Xavier's Institute with such exquisite, careful detail that I couldn't help staring at it.

"Please, have a seat," Scott invited, gesturing to one of the black leather chairs. "Can I get you a drink or anything?"

"Thank you," I murmured absently, still looking at the painting as I sat down. I nearly declined his offer out of habit, then realized I was actually thirsty. "Oh yes please. What do you have? I _am_ partial to SOBE, but if you don't have that up here, that's alright. Whatever you're going to have, I'll have also."

Scott bent down stiffly to peer into the fridge. I noted his stiffness with a wry grin: He'd spent too much time under that Mustang car, and no mistake.

Clasping my hands in my lap, I spoke while he searched through the cold bottled beverages. "Forgive me for being a little withdrawn, Mr. Summers."

"Call me Scott," came his voice, echoed from the fridge.

"Scott, of course," I amended. "The Professor means a lot to me, as... as I'm sure he does to you," I added quickly. "I don't deal with death very well." Such an admission was rare for a proud centaur, but I wasn't in the mood to preserve my pride. I wanted to talk about Xavier – both for my sake and for Scott's.

"The Professor took me under his wing and generously gave me this place as a home and... he was like a father to me. I've observed that he was like a father to so many people here," I added, watching Scott curiously and wondering if the true were same of him. "I've heard a lot of stories about parents rejecting their children once they show their mutation, and... I suppose we all come here looking for a family." I smiled wistfully. "With the Professor, we found it."

When Scott straightened up, he had two bottles in hand. I was relieved to see that he'd chosen a Dr. Pepper for himself, rather than a stronger drink such as beer. Logan wouldn't have settled for anything less. Then again, Logan had the mutation to handle beer.

Suddenly I was curious about Scott's mutation and what it entailed.

Scott crossed the room, and I couldn't hide my delight as he handed over an Orange Carrot Elixir SOBE.

I took it gratefully with a mumble of thanks. Suddenly my gaze froze on his hand. Beneath the coating of black grease, I saw purple-red bruises along his knuckles and a network of deep cuts. Slowly my gaze traveled back to his face, and that's when I took in the rest of what I hadn't noticed before: Cuts and bruises and numerous other signs of abuse...

_By the mane. No wonder he's sore._

Scott sat down in a chair, and I could only stare at him with barely-concealed shock. Being a proud centaur who had, on many occasions, hidden my own injuries, I felt that I ought to respect his boundaries and not pry. But my healer's heart ached with concern. Those injuries were severe, and they were only a few days old.

The injuries had also been inflicted in a deliberate pattern. Scott hadn't suffered an accident.

"The Professor will be missed, no doubt about that," was Scott's casual reply, which seemed far away to me. "He took me in after my parents died. I was the first student here, actually. But I don't see the point in focusing on the negativity," he said with a shrug. I wished I could see behind those ruby sunglasses. "We seem to have enough of it as it is, both inside and outside of these walls. I realize you're still basically a student, but I'm in need of a reading teacher for the younger students. Are you interested?"

It took a moment to comprehend what he'd asked. "What? Oh, a... a reading teacher? I'd love to. I love literature, and I could pass along that love to the children. I only hope it wouldn't consume a lot of my time, because... I'm also holding down a full-time job at Bloomingdale's while continuing my own studies. I really don't have much in the way of a social life."

Which was the understatement of the year. But I didn't want to talk about that.

Setting my SOBE on his desk, I rose from my seat and stared Scott down. Silently I went on the attack. Without words, I demanded an explanation.

Scott ignored me.

He took a long drink from the water bottle as he brought a folder out of the desk drawer. He handed it over.

"Inside you'll find class schedules, student lists..." He waved his fingers vaguely, never once meeting my gaze. "Basically, you're free to choose what times are best for you to teach. Classes can be held in the library or in the assigned reading classroom — that is also up to you."

Wordlessly I took the folder, but my intense gaze never left Scott. My Danger Sense told me that he wasn't unaware of my scrutiny.

"So what happened to you?" I asked bluntly.

Scott shoved his chair away from the desk and slouched, frowning beneath his ruby sunglasses. "It's something I'd rather not have to explain," he replied, equally blunt. He sighed, taking another long drink of water before tossing the empty bottle away. "When someone has been through Hell, they usually don't care to tell about it when they come back. They would much rather appreciate life, and the fact that they survived. That's the point where I am right now."

I took a deep breath and nodded soberly. "Of course. I understand completely... because I've been through... things."

I allowed a moment of silence to pass between us, scaling my intense gaze back to a calculating stare. Scott may have been the Professor's first student, but leadership was clearly a new, foreign realm. Or so I guessed. This kind of behavior would sink us all – I knew that with dreadful certainty – but where should I start? To Scott Summers, I was practically a stranger. Would he take advice from me?

It didn't matter. The future of Xavier's rested on his shoulders.

"I know that to you, I'm just one of the students here," I began, gazing levelly at the young man. "But I'm not an ordinary mutant. I'm a centaur, and I'm 44 years old. My name is Zephina Freeheart Wildfire, though everyone calls me Violar. I have fought in battle, I have seen death... I have been involved in politics. I have much to learn - everyone does. But there are things I already know about the fight to bring two opposing worlds together." I took a step towards him, forcing his shaded gaze to lift in my direction. "Scott, if you need anything... anything at all... I am more than willing to assist you, and this school, and the Professor's dream. Because I believe in all three."

Scott clasped his hands and brooded in silence. I had the distinct impression that he didn't like what I'd just told him. He didn't want me prodding into the dark areas inside of him – for which I couldn't blame him. But his cold manner irritated me. Did he not think me qualified to help him? After what I'd just said about my history, how could he brush me aside so easily?

As if he'd heard my thoughts, Scott answered my unspoken questions.

"I've never been one to ask for help, or admit that I need it. It just isn't part of who I am, and odds are, it never will be." The shades slanted in my direction. "What happened to me was something I won't ever forget, and as much as I'd like to, I can't just go have it wiped from my memory. I'll have to get over it in my own way, like I always do. I don't expect anyone to understand it – because, quite frankly, I don't understand it myself."

He stood up painfully, and I slowly followed him to the large painting that covered his office wall. While he studied the painting, I watched Scott carefully. There was so much a person _didn't_ say that spoke louder than words.

"I did this when I was thirteen," he explained. "I made it so that whenever I came in here, I would see what I kept fighting for, and that is a place where we can all live in peace. And he left this place to _me."_ I swallowed hard, knowing he meant Professor Xavier. "Now if I let myself grow weak, I'll be putting his belief in me to shame."

For a moment, I turned my thoughtful gaze to the wall. The painting had been rendered in painstaking detail – and now I knew why. A boy had painted his very dream on this wall. I wondered how long it had taken Scott and if he'd ever been truly happy with it.

"It depends on what weakness is," I answered him softly, seeing the painting from a new perspective. "The definition of weakness differs. War is an awful thing - something no creature should ever have to endure. It breaks hearts and tears souls and ruins lives. And yet... if you survive," I added, turning toward Scott, "then... perhaps you've already proven that you're stronger. But even the best of survivors is wounded. You can't trust just anyone to see about the wound, but perhaps someone who's already been there can understand better than anyone else."

I gently touched his elbow, and the dawn of his soft smile encouraged me. I went on. "Leaders have to rely on each other, Scott... and we'll make each other stronger that way. I believe it was one of your own American politicians who once said, 'United we stand, divided we fall.'" I paused, searching his chiseled face for a moment. "I am a leader, Scott. Trust me."

His smile grew, though his shaded gaze never left the wall. Something in the air shifted between us: An invisible wall came tumbling down.

"When he told me I was going to lead them – become the team leader," Scott reminisced, referring once more to the Professor, "something inside of me woke up. I trained my mind and body to basically be a rock – a rock that never broke, never cracked, never once showed any signs of weakness. Because if I did, then the rest of the team did as well."

He shrugged and rambled on. "People can call me stubborn all they want, but until they walk a mile in my shoes, they can never understand. He was all I had left, as far as family goes. All of my memories of ever being in love were either wiped out, or I was never in love..." His brow furrowed. "No… Jean. I remember Jean." Scott huffed. "Some mess that turned out to be. It's odd... I know there were others. I can even see their faces: Ro, Emma... and another recent one, but every time I try to remember, it's like someone stabs me in the head. So maybe it's best I forget. My point is, he was all I had - and now he's gone. And I had just started to get over it before they took me and broke me. "

His jaw hardened. I squeezed his elbow in a subtle gesture of sympathy.

"He's not gone, Scott." My voice was very quiet, but full of conviction. "He's still here... in your heart."

Abruptly I paused, wondering how true that really was... and before I knew what was going to happen, my eyes filled with tears and I cast my gaze to the floor. Recent events in my own life overwhelmed me.

_Now is NOT the time,_ I told myself firmly, forcing my thoughts back to the present. Just that morning, I'd looked in the mirror and declared that the past was passed.

If only it were that easy.

I shook my head quickly. "He said he wouldn't leave... and he meant that. He's still here. He's still _with_ you. And when you need him the most, when you need to know what he would do, a word or an expression or... something... it'll come through, Scott. And," I added, looking up at him, "I don't think they succeeded in breaking you."

"No," argued Scott, frowning. "I feel like so much is missing. They took something from me that can never be replaced. I don't know what it is, because I can't remember. But they stole it from me, so in a sense, part of me is missing – meaning I'm broken. They defeated me, both physically and mentally. That's something I don't want to live with, yet I can't force myself to forget."

Somehow I controlled the shudder that ran down my spine. This was the new leader of Xavier's Institute talking, and I didn't like it. My hands clenched into fists, and I remained near the wall while Scott went back to the refrigerator, pulled out another ice cold bottle of water, downed the entire thing, then changed the subject.

"Will you be needing any help with the teaching?"

I pivoted to face him, unsure of how to confront him with truths and realities. For the moment, I humored him.

"No, but you can help me with something else," I said slowly, reluctant to delve into this particular subject. But I had a plan...

"Go on." With a deliberate Professor-like air, Scott sat down on his side of the desk.

"Scott, you... and I... We have something in common, from slightly different angles." Resolutely I crossed the room and sank into the chair. "It's St. John Allerdyce."

I said the name quickly before I could change my mind, like ripping off one of this world's Band-Aids or a strong piece of duct tape. Which was a good thing, because Scott's face instantly darkened like a thundercloud.

"What about him?" he bit out.

"I… he…" I drew a shaky breath, sensing all the credibility I'd just built up with Scott beginning to crumble. "I met him by chance one evening. We became… attached to one another."

Scott folded his arms, scowling behind his shades. "I see."

Desperation welled up inside of me. "For one moment, he was… different," I tried to explain.

"One moment?" countered Scott skeptically. "Then what happened?"

I looked down at my clasped hands. "He... doesn't remember me. At all. And it's not his fault. Something's keeping him from remembering. I don't know what's going to happen to him now."

"So the change wasn't permanent? He's gone back to the Pyro we all know and love?"

My heart sank. "You could say that."

"Maybe he never changed in the first place."

That further crushed my exhausted spirit. "I don't believe that," I whispered without looking up.

Scott hesitated. "In all fairness," he said gruffly, "I've known Pyro far longer than you have."

I swallowed a painful lump in my throat. "I'm aware of that. But there are moments when… when you least expect it… when the mask falls away, and one person can see into a heart that has been hidden for an entire lifetime."

Even though he said nothing, I felt Scott reluctantly agree. The fierce tension that gripped the room in its silent talons slowly began to ease.

"I wish I knew what to tell you, I really do," said Scott more gently. "Just think of it as a way to start over. Not everybody gets a second chance. I got lucky. So did you. So don't do what I did and waste it. That's all I can really tell you about that."

A second chance. I shook my head. Had my soul not been so wrung out with grief, I might have gotten angry with Scott. The last thing I wanted was a second chance.

Because a second chance meant that I'd have the opportunity to love Angel again. Since Angel didn't love me in return, what good was a second chance? I could only love him in tortured silence. This second chance was hell disguised as hope.

Scott encouraged me not to waste this second chance. But it was too late. Second chances were wasted on me.

Lifting my chin, I drew on what little determination I had left and offered a wry smile. "I have lousy luck, Scott. It's just the story of my life, that's all."

That prompted a smile from Scott as well, as if I'd exaggerated and made a joke out of my life's example. I wished it were a joke.

I pressed on before Scott could realize the truth behind my words. "You're right, however. You did receive a second chance – thank Aslan for that. This Institute needs you. The people here need you. Whether or not you regain your memories, the man you are is the man Xavier helped shape. You'll make a fine leader."

Casually screwing and unscrewing the SOBE lid, I regarded Scott thoughtfully. "A leader is usually alone, and that is perhaps the greatest burden any leader must bear - is being alone. But you're going to be stronger, and lucky, because I won't _let_ you be alone. Any difficulty you face, I can help you with - no matter what it is. Even love." I smiled, though I was deadly serious. "Please feel free to talk with me about anything you like. I'll never betray your trust. I promise you that. I am here at Xavier's to serve, and as our new leader, my first responsibility will be to serve you. That's a responsibility I take very seriously."

Scott sighed, equally thoughtful. He folded his hands atop the desk.

"I appreciate that – really, I do. But I get the feeling love is something I'll never be able to have again, so the old life I knew is as good as gone." Another wrinkle joined the collection in his furrowed brow. "I'm just going to have to accept that and move on the best way I know how – which is to bury myself in work until I eventually crash." He shrugged. "It's just how I operate. I can't help that."

Horror exploded inside of me. I stood up very suddenly and banged my SOBE down on his desk.

"Scott! That's awful," I told him, dismayed. He sat back in surprise, but merely quirked an eyebrow as I glared down at him. "I'm not going to let _that_ happen. I, too, had my heart broken. I dared to trust someone who never returned my feelings, and even now, I _still don't know why_ _he didn't_. We were perfect for each other. I'll never find that kind of instant harmony again. But I survived. After months of living in agony, I still survived. You're too strong to fall to something like that."

Scott frowned at me and shrugged, but I cut off his imminent protest.

"As for working until you crash? I don't _think_ so. Maybe that's how you operated in the past, but you can't do that - not now. Not with an entire mansion full of Xavier's students depending on you. Whether you like it or not, you and I are going to have an hour of recess every day. That means I'm going to take you outdoors and we're going to enjoy nature for a little while."

Scott squirmed in his seat. "Nature?"

"Nature," I repeated sharply with a deliberate flash of bared teeth. "I don't care whether we're sparring in the courtyard or sitting around the fountain and talking, but we're going to let a bit of nature absorb into you until you relax. Don't argue with me," I added boldly. Scott was looking at me as if I'd just served him a bowl of earthworms and fried bumblebees for lunch. "I won't take no for an answer."

Scott sat frozen in his chair. I wished I could see his eyes. Emotions roiled through him, waking in his veins with surges of fire, and I thrilled in the lava pouring into my Danger Sense. Not long ago, I'd also been awakened by fire.

But even as I reveled in what I'd done to Scott, I began to tremble all over. Scott didn't even know who I was. And he was the leader of Xavier's Institute.

And I'd just spoken to him as if he were a student who'd gotten out of line.

I leaned more heavily against his desk, my palms growing clammy. A cold shiver ran down my spine. It took every ounce of strength I possessed to maintain outward calm – and my aggressive posture.

Then, with remarkable swiftness, Scott regained his composure. He adjusted his ruby shades and twisted his mouth into a smile, amused and annoyed at the same time.

"Fine," he said tersely. "If it'll make you feel better. But that's the only reason I'm doing it." I nodded, graciously accepting my victory, and some of the tension left my rigid arms as he continued. "I handle things my own way, and it's worked for me my entire life. I've never needed anyone, and when I relied on someone, I ended up either dead or broken. I'll never let that happen again. I may not remember it, but somehow, I _know_ that's why they took me."

Scott rose until we faced each other, eye to lense, across the desk. "I couldn't fight them back to the best of my abilities because someone _hurt_ me. I don't know who. I don't know why. But it almost got me killed, and I refuse to go through that hell again."

I glared at my furious reflection in Scott's red sunglasses. Strands of my hair had pulled loose and curled around my face, giving me a look that reminded me of an angry wild horse.

"Then in the future, be more careful about who you trust," I replied in a steely tone. "Put them through trials first. If they pass, you can give them a little piece of yourself and see how they handle it. I understand what you're going through, and I'm truly sorry about it, but you have to move past that. You can't let this one incident dictate the rest of your life. And people? People will hurt you. People will let you down. But you can't have this mentality of all or nothing, or it _will_ kill you. Believe me, I know."

His lips compressed into a tight line, and he glanced away, scowling. He didn't believe me.

I fought back the urge to bare my teeth again and snarl at him. Whether he believed me or not wasn't important.

"You're going to have to make some changes for the sake of this school, Scott. You can't be this independent. The way you lived before, when you were merely a teacher, has to go. There's a lot more at stake here. Those kids out there need you to be a rock, like he was. They need you to be stability... a father. You need a circle of trusted people whom you can depend on. You don't know it yet," I added boldly yet without arrogance, "but _I_ am one of those people."

He scoffed. And he had every right to scoff, I thought. "You rather overestimate yourself, don't you?"

I shook my head, but my determined gaze remained locked with his sunglasses. "No one is going to be a hundred percent dependable. We're mutants: We're mortal. We make mistakes. But some of us are going to _keep trying_. And as long as we never give up, we'll get through, somehow." I leaned further forward and stared straight into his ruby lenses. "And I, for one, am _not_ going to give up."

"That's easy for you to say now," Scott countered.

"But under fire," I finished for him, "the resolve weakens. I'm aware of that. So test me, Scott. Test me however you like."

"And what do you know of tests?" The question, which might have come off snide or rude, was genuine. Scott really wanted to know.

Warmth softened me into smiling. "More than you think," I answered more gently. "Not many have tested me here at Xavier's. Kurt Wagner tested me unintentionally. Logan has tested me in the Danger Room on a few occasions. Jean also gave me a test for—"

"Jean," Scott breathed. "That's it."

I blinked. "I… I beg your pardon?"

Even though I couldn't see Scott's eyes, I knew that distant thought had consumed him. I waited for the outcome of those thoughts.

"I should go see her," he said at length – more to himself than to me.

"Without testing her first?" I shot back.

Scott gave me a severe look that I could feel right through his sunglasses. I shoved away from the table and folded my arms with a shrug.

"So you don't feel you need to test her. Very well, then." And that's all I would say on the subject, because I didn't feel at liberty to say more. As it was, I'd probably said too much.

Scott brushed aside my reply – or else he hadn't heard it. He straightened up and looked squarely at me, and his smile was genuine.

"You've helped me here more than you probably think, Violar. You've put things clearly for me, and I know what I have to do now. As soon as Jean gets back, I'm going to see her, get my injuries treated, and… I'm going to try and make things right between the two of us."

My blazing emotions receded to warm gratefulness. So he _had_ been listening. And he hadn't tossed me out of his office with a stinging "good riddance" – which would have been the fate of a centaur who showed such audacity in Narnia's Council Ring.

Scott moved around his desk and held out his hand. I took it readily with a hearty shake.

"Scott, you're going to make a great leader," I said confidently, smiling. "I'm going to talk with you honestly, as one leader to another, always... even though I am still a student here, and I will always respect your authority." I gripped his hand more tightly. "As they say, the best is yet to come. And good luck in your upcoming discussion with Jean."

Scott gave my hand one last squeeze, then released it. "She won't be back for at least a few days. I believe she's on a business trip for the school."

"Recruiting?" I wondered.

He shrugged. "Maybe. But I would trust that woman with my life. I even did that once..."

His gaze fell to the floor, and I felt him drift into memory again. For as damaged as Scott was, I mused, he probably needed a few trips down Memory Lane – just for the sake of his sanity.

"Well, who knows what the future holds, Scott. Perhaps you'll have another opportunity to place your life in her care again."

His gaze came back to me, and he smiled. "You may be right, Violar. You may be right."

I inclined my head to him, then picked up my SOBE. But I waited for Scott to dismiss me properly.

"Ahem." Scott cleared his throat. "How about one of those outdoor walks you were talking about? I could probably go for one right about now."

I could hardly contain my smile. He really had been listening. "Of course. I was actually headed that way myself."


End file.
